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GEORGE  GISSING 


THE 


(JNCLASSED 


BY 

GEORGE   GISSING 

AUTHOR  OF 

"THE  ODD  WOMEN,"  "eve's  ransom,"   "  IN  THE  YEAR 

OF  JUBII.ee" 


'Hast  du  nicht  gute  Gesellschaft  gesehn?    Es  zeigt  uns  dein  Buchlein 
Fast  nur  Gaukler  und  Volk,  ja  was  iioch  niedriger  ist. 
Gute  Gesellschaft  hab'  ich  gesehn  ;  man  nennt  sie  de  gute 
Wenn  sie  zuin  kleinsten  Gedicht  keiue  Gelegenheit  giebt." 

— Goethe 


NEW  YORK 
R.    F.    FENNO   &   COMPANY 

112   FIFTH   AVENUE 
LONDON  :  LAWRENCE  &  BULLEN 


Copyright,  1896 
R.  F.  FENNO  &  COMPANY 


The  Unciassed 


K 


CONTENTS 


CHAP. 

I.  SCHOOL 

ir.   MOTHEU  AND  CHILD 
IIL  ANTECEDENTS 
IV.  CHRISTMAS  IN   TWO  HOMES 
V.   POSSIBILITIES 
VL   AN  ADVERTISEMENT 
Vn.   BETWEEN   OLD   AND  NEW 
VIII.  ACADEMICAL 
IX.  THE  COUSINS 
X.  THE  WAY  OUT      . 
XL   BY  THE  WAYSIDE 
XIL  RENT  DAY    . 
XIIL   A  MAN-TRAP 
XIV.  NEAR  AND   FAR    . 
XV.   UP  THE  RIVER      . 
XVL   EXAMPLE   WITHOUT   PRECEPT 
XVIL  THE  MISSINC,   YEARS 
XVIIL  THE   ENDERBYS    . 
XIX.   IN  THE   MEANTIME 
XX.  A  SUGGESTION      . 
XXL   DIPLOMACY  . 
XXIL   UNDER-CURRENTS 
XXIIL   THE  OPPORTUNITY 

XXIV.  JUSTICE 

XXV.  ART  AND  MISERY 


PAOB 
I 

9 

19 
27 

36 

39 

46 

55 
64 

70 

79 
92 

lOI 

IC7 

"5 
122 
129 
146 

157 
162 
170 
179 
1S9 
197 
210 


viii  CONTENTS 

CHAP.  '•40B 

XXVI.  STKAYING 2I4 

XXVII.  THE  WILL  TO  LIVE 221 

XXVIII.  SLIMY'S  DAY    .......  228 

XXIX.  FREEDOM 238 

XXX.  ELM  COURT 247 

XXXL   NEW   PROSPECTS 250 

XXXIL   A  VISION   OF  SIN 26l 

XXXIIL  A  GARDEN   PARTY 268 

XXXIV.  A  LATE  REVENGE 275 

XXXV.   HOUSE-WARMING 282 

XXXVI.   NO  WAY  BUT  THIS 29O 

XXXVII.   FORBIDDEN 298 

XXXVIII.  ORDERS  OF  RELEASE 306 


THE    UNOLASSED 


CHAPTER  I 

SCHOOL 

There  was  strange  disorder  in  Miss  Rutherford's  school- 
room, wont  to  be  the  abode  of  decorum.  True,  it  was  the 
gathering-time  after  the  dinner-hour,  and  Miss  Rutherford 
herself  was  as  yet  out  of  sight ;  but  things  seemed  to  be 
going  forward  of  a  somewhat  more  serious  kind  than  a  game 
of  romps  among  the  cliildren.  There  were  screams  and 
sobbings,  hysterical  cries  for  help;  some  of  the  little  girls 
were  crowding  round  an  object  in  one  corner  of  the  room, 
others  appeared  to  be  getting  as  far  away  from  it  as  possible, 
hiding  their  pale  faces  in  their  hands,  or  looking  at  one 
another  with  terrified  eyes.  At  length  one  more  thoughtful 
than  the  rest  sped  away  out  of  the  room,  and  stood  at  the 
bottom  of  the  stairs,  calling  out  her  teacher's  name  as  loud 
as  she  coidd.  A  moment,  and  Miss  Rutherford  came  hasten- 
ing down,  with  alarmed  aspect,  begging  to  be  told  what  was 
the  matter.  But  the  summoner  had  turned  and  tied  at  the 
tirst  sight  of  the  lady's  garments.  Miss  Rutherford  darted 
into  the  schoolroom,  and  at  once  there  was  quietness,  save 
for  half-choked  sobs  here  and  there,  and  a  more  ominous 
kind  of  moaning  from  the  crowded  corner. 

"Gracious  goodness,  children,  Avhat  is  it?  Who's  that 
lying  on  the  floor?  Harriet  Smales!  What  ever  has 
happened  1 " 

The  cluster  of  children  had  fallen  aside,  exposing  a  strange 
picture.  On  the  ground  lay  a  girl  of  twelve,  her  face  deadly 
pale,  save  in  the  places  where  it  was  dabbled  with  fresh 
blood,  which  still  streamed  from  a  gash  on  the  right  side  of 
her  forehead.     Her  eyes  were  half  opened ;   she  Avas  just 

A 


2  THE  UNCLASSED 

recovering  consciousness ;  a  moan  came  from  her  at  intervals. 
She  had  for  support  the  lap  and  arms  of  a  little  girl,  perhaps 
two  years  younger  than  herself.  Heedless  of  the  flowing 
blood,  this  child  was  pressing  her  pale  cheek  against  that  of 
the  wounded  one,  whose  name  she  kept  murmuring  in  pitiful 
accents,  mixed  with  endearing  epithets.  So  unconscious 
was  she  of  all  around,  that  the  falling  back  of  the  other 
children  did  not  cause  her  to  raise  her  eyes;  neither  was 
she  aware  of  Miss  Rutherford's  first  exclamations,  nor  yet  of 
the  question  wliich  was  next  addressed  to  her  by  the  horrified 
schoolmistress. 

"  How  did  it  happen  1  Some  of  you  run  at  once  for  a 
doctor — Dr.  Williams  in  Grove  Road — Oh,  quick! — Ida 
Starr,  how  did  it  happen  t " 

Ida  did  not  move,  but  seemed  to  tighten  her  embrace. 
The  other  pupils  all  looked  fearfully  hither  and  thither,  but 
none  ventured  to  speak. 

"  Ida ! "  repeated  Miss  Rutherford,  dropping  on  her  knees 
by  the  two,  and  beginning  to  wipe  away  some  of  the  blood 
with  her  handkerchief.  "Speak,  child!  Has  some  one 
gone  for  the  doctor  1     How  was  it  done  ? " 

The  face  at  length  turned  upon  the  questioner  was  almost 
as  ghastly  and  red-stained  as  that  it  had  been  pressed  against. 
But  it  had  become  self-controlled;  the  dark  eyes  looked 
straight  forward  with  an  expression  marvellously  full  of 
meaning  in  one  so  young ;  the  lips  did  not  tremble  as  they 
spoke. 

"  I  did  it.  Miss  Rutherford.  I  have  killed  Harriet.  I, 
and  nobody  else." 

"You?     How,  child?" 

"  I  killed  her  with  the  slate.  Miss  Rutherford  :  this  slate, 
look." 

She  pointed  to  a  slate  without  a  frame  which  lay  on  the 
floor.  There  were  sums  worked  on  the  uppermost  side,  and 
the  pencil  marks  were  half  obliterated.  For  a  moment  the 
schoolmistress's  amazement  held  her  motionless,  but  fresh 
and  louder  moans  recalled  her  to  the  immediate  necessities 
of  the  case.  She  pushed  Ida  Starr  aside,  and,  with  the  help 
of  a  servant-girl  who  had  by  this  time  appeared  in  the  room, 
raised  the  suff'erer  into  a  chair,  and  began  to  apply  what 
remedies  suggested  themselves.  The  surgeon,  whom  several 
of  the  children  had  hastened  to  seek,  only  lived  a  few  yards 
away,   and   his    assistant   was   speedily   present.      Harriet 


SCHOOL  3 

Smales  had  quite  recovered  consciousness,  and  was  very 
soon  able  to  give  her  own  account  of  the  incident.  After 
listening  to  her,  Miss  Rutherford  turned  to  the  school- 
children, who  were  now  seated  in  the  usual  order  on  benches, 
and  spoke  to  them  with  some  degree  of  calm. 

"I  am  going  to  take  Harriet  home.  Lucy  Wood,  you 
will  please  to  see  that  order  is  preserved  in  my  absence ;  I 
shall  only  be  away  twenty  minutes,  at  the  most.  Ida  Starr, 
you  will  go  up  into  my  sitting-room,  and  remain  there  till 
I  come  to  you.  All  take  out  your  copy-books;  I  shall 
examine  the  lines  written  whilst  I  am  away." 

The  servant,  who  had  been  despatched  for  a  cab,  appeared 
at  the  door.  Harriet  Smales  was  led  out.  Before  leaving 
the  house,  Miss  Rutherford  whispered  to  the  servant  an 
order  to  occupy  herself  in  the  sitting-room,  so  as  to  keep  Ida 
Starr  in  sight. 

Miss  Rutherford,  strict  disciplinarian  when  her  nerves 
were  not  unstrung,  was  as  good  as  her  promise  with  regard 
to  the  copy-books.  She  had  returned  within  the  twenty 
minutes,  and  the  first  thing  she  did  was  to  walk  along  all 
the  benches,  making  a  comment  here,  a  correction  there,  in 
another  place  giving  a  word  of  praise..  Then  she  took  her 
place  at  the  raised  desk  whence  she  was  wont  to  survey  the 
little  room. 

There  were  present  thirteen  pupils,  the  oldest  of  them 
turned  fifteen,  the  youngest  scarcely  six.  They  appeared  to 
be  the  daughters  of  respectable  people,  probably  of  trades- 
men in  the  neighbourhood.  This  school  was  in  Lisson 
Grove,  in  the  north-west  of  London ;  a  spot  not  to  be  pic- 
tured from  its  name  by  those  ignorant  of  the  locality ;  in 
point  of  fact  a  dingy  street,  with  a  mixture  of  shops  and 
private  houses.  On  the  front  door  was  a  plate  displaying 
Miss  Rutherford's  name, — nothing  more.  That  lady  herself 
was  middle-aged,  grave  at  all  times,  kindly,  and,  be  it  added, 
fairly  competent  as  things  go  in  the  world  of  school.  The 
room  was  rather  bare,  but  the  good  fire  necessitated  by  the 
winter  season  was  not  wanting,  and  the  plain  boarding  of 
the  floor  showed  itself  no  stranger  to  scrubbings.  A  clock 
hanging  on  the  wall  ticked  very  loudly  in  the  perfect  stillness 
as  the  schoolmistress  took  her  seat. 

She  appeared  to  examine  a  book  for  a  few  moments,  then 
raised  her  head,  looked  at  the  faces  before  her  with  a  troubled 
expression,  and  began  to  speak. 


4  THE  UNCLASSED 

*'  I  wisli  to  know  who  can  give  me  any  account  of  the 
way  in  which  Harriet  Smales  received  her  hurt.  Stop! 
Hands  only,  please.  And  only  those  raise  their  hands  who 
actually  saw  the  blow  struck,  and  overheard  all  that  led  to  it. 
You  understand,  now?  One,  two,  three— seven  altogether, 
that  is  quite  enough.  Those  seven  will  wait  in  the  room  at 
four  o'clock  till  the  others  have  all  gone.  Now  I  will  give 
the  first  class  their  sums." 

The  afternoon  passed  very  slowly  to  teacher  and  pupils 
alike.  When  the  clock  struck  four,  work  was  put  away  with 
more  than  the  usual  noise  and  hurry.  Miss  Rutherford 
seemed  for  a  time  to  be  on  the  point  of  making  some  new 
address  to  the  school  before  the  children  departed,  but 
eventually  she  decided  to  keep  silence,  and  the  dismissal 
was  got  over  as  quickly  as  possible.  The  seven  witnesses 
remained,  solemnly  seated  at  their  desks,  all  anxious-looking. 

"Lucy  "Wood,"  Miss  Rutherford  began,  when  the  door 
was  closed  and  quiet,  "  you  are  the  eldest.  Please  tell  me 
all  you  can  of  this  sad  afi'air." 

There  was  one  of  tlie  seven  faces  far  more  discomposed 
tlian  the  rest,  a  sweet  and  spiritual  little  countenance ;  it 
was  tear  stained,  red-eyed;  the  eager  look,  the  trembling 
lips  spoke  some  intimate  cause  of  sympathy.  Before  the 
girl  addressed  had  time  to  begin  her  answer,  this  other,  one 
would  have  said  in  spite  of  herself,  intervened  with  an  almost 
agonised  question. 

"Oh,  Miss  Rutherford,  is  Harriet  really  dead?" 

"  Hush,  hush  !  "  said  the  lady,  with  a  shocked  look.  •'  No, 
my  dear,  she  is  only  badly  hurt." 

"And  she  really  won't  die?"  pleaded  the  child,  with  an 
instant  brightening  of  look. 

"Certainly  not,  certainly  not.  Now  be  quiet,  Maud,  and 
let  Lucy  begin." 

Lucy,  a  sensible  and  matter-of-fact  girl,  made  a  straight- 
forward narration,  the  facts  of  which  were  concurred  in  by 
her  companions.  Harriet  Smales,  it  seemed,  had  been 
exercising  upon  Ida  for  some  days  her  utmost  powers  of 
irritation,  teasing  her,  as  Lucy  put  it,  "beyond  all  bearing." 
The  cause  of  this  was  not  unknown  in  the  school,  and  Miss 
Rutherford  remembered  the  incident  from  which  the  malice 
dated.  Harriet  had  copied  a  sum  in  class  from  Ida's  slate 
— she  was  always  copying  from  somebody — and  the  teacher, 
who  had  somehow  detected  her,  asked  Ida  plainly  whethci 


SCHOOL  5 

such  was  not  the  case,  Ida  made  no  reply,  would  not  speak, 
which  of  course  was  taken  as  confirmatory  evidence,  and  the 
■  culprit  had  accordingly  received  an  imposition.  Her  spleen, 
thus  aroused,  Harriet  vented  upon  the  other  girl,  who,  she 
maintained,  ought  to  have  stoutly  denied  the  possibility  of 
the  alleged  deceit,  and  so  have  saved  her.  She  gave  poor 
Ida  no  rest,  and  her  persecution  had  culminated  this  after- 
noon ;  she  began  to  "call  Ida's  mother  names,"  the  result  of 
which  was  that  the  assailed  one  suddenly  snatched  up  her 
slate,  and,  in  an  uncontrollable  fit  of  passion,  struck  her  tor- 
mentor a  blow  with  it  upon  the  forehead. 

"What  did  she  call  Ida's  mother?"  inquired  Miss 
Rutherford,  all  at  once  changing  her  look  curiously. 

"  She  called  her  a  bad  woman." 

"Was  that  all?" 

"No,  please,  Miss  Kutherford,"  put  in  Maud  eagerly, 
"She  said  she  got  her  living  in  the  streets.  And  it  isn't 
true.  Ida's  mother's  a  lady,  and  doesn't  sell  things  in  the 
streets ! " 

The  teacher  looked  down  and  was  silent. 

"  I  don't  think  I  need  ask  any  more  questions,"  she  said 
presently.  "Run  away  home  all  of  you.  What  is  it,  my 
dear?" 

Maud,  she  was  about  eleven,  and  small  for  her  age,  had 
remained  behind,  and  was  looking  anxiously  up  into  Miss 
Rutherford's  face. 

"May  I  wait  for  Ida,  please,"  she  asked,  "and — and 
walk  home  with  her?     We  go  the  same  way." 

"Not  to-night,  dear;  no,  not  to-night.  Ida  Starr  is  in 
disgrace.  She  will  not  go  home  just  yet.  Run  away,  now, 
there's  a  good  girl." 

Sadly,  sadly  was  the  command  obeyed,  and  very  slowly 
did  Maud  Enderby  walk  along  the  streets  homeward,  ever 
turning  back  to  see  whether  perchance  Ida  might  not  be 
behind  her. 

Miss  Rutherford  ascended  to  her  sitting-room.  The 
culprit  was  standing  in  a  corner  with  her  face  to  the  wall, 

"  Why  do  you  stand  so  ? "  asked  the  teacher  gravely,  but 
not  very  severely. 

"  I  thought  you'd  want  me  to,  Miss  Rutherford." 

"  Come  here  to  me,  child." 

Ida  had  clearly  been  crying  for  a  long  time,  and  there  was 
Btill  blood  on  her  face.     tShe  seemed  to  have  made  up  her 


6  THE  UNCLASSED 

mind  that  the  punishment  awaiting  her  must  be  dreadful, 
and  she  resolved  to  bear  it  humbly.  She  came  up,  still 
holding  her  hands  behind  her,  and  stood  with  downcast 
eyes.  The  hair  which  hung  down  over  her  shoulders  was 
dark  brown,  her  eye-brows  strongly  marked,  the  eyes  them- 
selves rather  deep-set.  She  wore  a  pretty  plum-coloured 
dress,  with  a  dainty  little  apron  in  front ;  her  whole  appear- 
ance bespeaking  a  certain  taste  and  love  of  elegance  in  the 
person  who  had  the  care  of  her. 

"  You  \Yill  be  glad  to  hear,"  said  Miss  Rutherford,  "  that 
Harriet's  hurt  is  not  as  serious  as  we  feared  at  first.  But 
she  will  have  to  stay  at  home  for  some  days." 

There  was  no  motion  or  reply. 

"  Do  you  know  that  I  am  quite  afraid  of  you,  Ida  1  I  had 
no  idea  that  you  were  so  passionate.  Had  you  no  thought 
what  harm  you  might  do  when  you  struck  that  terrible 
blow?" 

But  Ida  could  not  converse ;  no  word  was  to  be  got  from 
her. 

"  You  must  go  home  now,"  went  on  the  schoolmistress 
after  a  pause,  *'  and  not  come  back  till  1  send  for  you.  Tell 
your  mother  just  what  you  have  done,  and  say  that  I  will 
write  to  her  about  you.  You  understand  what  I  say,  my 
child?" 

The  punishment  had  come  upon  her.  Nothing  worse 
than  this  had  Ida  ima,L,'ined ;  nay,  nothing  so  bad.  She 
drew  in  her  breath,  her  fingers  Avreathed  themselves  violently 
together  behind  her  back.  She  half  raised  her  face,  but 
could  not  resolve  to  meet  her  teacher's  eyes.  On  the  per- 
mission to  go  being  repeated,  she  left  the  room  in  silence, 
descended  the  stairs  with  the  slow  steps  of  an  old  person, 
dressed  herself  mechanically,  and  went  out  into  the  street. 
Miss  Rutherford  stood  for  some  time  in  profound  and 
troubled  thought,  then  sighed  as  she  returned  to  her  usual 
engagements. 

The  following  day  was  Saturday,  and  therefore  a  half- 
holiday.  After  dinner,  Miss  Rutherford  prepared  herself  for 
walking,  and  left  home.  A  quarter  of  an  hour  brought  her 
to  a  little  out-of-the-way  thoroughfare  called  Boston  Street, 
close  to  the  west  side  of  Regent's  Park,  and  here  she  entered 
a  chemist's  shop,  over  which  stood  the  name  Smales.  A 
middle-aged  man  of  very  haggard  and  feeble  appearance 
stood  behind  the  counter,  and  his  manner  to  the  lady  as  she 


SCHOOL  7 

addressed  him  was  painfully  subservient.  He  spoke  very 
little  above  a  whisper,  and  as  though  suffering  from  a  severe 
sore  throat,  but  it  was  his  natural  voice. 

"  She's  better,  I  thank  you,  madam ;  much  better,  I  hope 
and  believe  ;  yes,  much  better." 

He  repeated  his  words  nervously,  rubbing  his  hands  to- 
gether feverishly  the  while,  and  making  his  eye-brows  go  up 
and  down  in  a  curious  way. 

"  flight  I  see  her  for  a  few  moments  1 " 

*'  She  would  be  happy,  madam,  very  happy  :  oh  yes,  I  am 
sure,  very  happy !  If — if  you  would  have  the  kindness  to 
come  round,  yes,  round  here,  madam,  and — and  to  excu>ie 
our  poor  sitting-room.  Thank  you,  thank  you.  Harriet,  my 
dear.  Miss  Rutherford  has  had  the  great,  the  very  great, 
goodness  to  visit  you — to  visit  you  personally — yes.  I  will 
leave  you,  if — if  you  please — h'm,  yes." 

He  shuffled  away  in  the  same  distressingly  nervous  man- 
ner, and  closed  the  door  behind  him.  The  schoolmistress 
found  herself  in  a  dark  little  parlour,  which  smelt  even  more 
of  drugs  than  the  shop  itself.  The  window  looked  out  into 
\l  a  dirty  back-yard,  and  was  almost  concealed  with  heavy  red 
curtains.  As  the  eyes  got  accustomed  to  the  dimness,  one 
observed  that  the  floor  was  covered  with  very  old  oil-cloth, 
and  that  the  articles  of  furniture  were  few,  only  the  most 
indispensable,  and  all  very  shabby.  Everything  seemed  to 
be  dusty  and  musty.  The  only  approacli  to  an  ornament 
was  a  framed  diploma  hanging  over  the  mantelpiece,  certify- 
ing that  John  Alfred  Smales  was  a  duly  qualified  pharma- 
ceutical chemist.  A  low  fiie  burned  in  the  gi-ate,  and  before 
it,  in  a  chair  which  would  probably  have  claimed  the  title  of 
easy,  sat  the  girl  Harriet  Smales,  her  head  in  bandages. 

She  received  Miss  Rutherford  rather  sulkily,  and  as 
she  moved,  groaned  in  a  way  which  did  not  seem  the 
genuine  utterance  of  pain.  After  a  few  sympathetic  remarks, 
the  teacher  began  to  touch  upon  the  real  object  of  her 
visit. 

"  I  have  no  intention  of  blaming  you,  Harriet ;  I  should 
not  speak  of  this  at  all,  if  it  were  not  necessary.  But  I  must 
ask  you  plainly  Avhat  reason  you  had  for  speaking  of  Ida 
Starr's  mother  as  they  say  you  did.  Why  did  you  say  she 
was  a  bad  woman  t " 

"It's  only  what  she  is,"  returned  Harriet  sullenly,  and 
with  much  inward  venom. 


8  THE  UNCLASSED 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  1  Who  has  told  you  any- 
thing about  her  ? " 

Only  after  some  little  questioning  the  fact  was  elicited 
that  Harriet  owed  her  ideas  on  the  subject  to  a  servant  girl 
in  the  house,  whose  name  was  Sarah. 

"  What  does  Sarah  say,  tlien  1 "  asked  Miss  Rutherford. 

"  She  says  she  isn't  respectable,  and  that  she  goes  about 
with  men,  and  she's  only  a  common  street-woman,"  answered 
the  girl,  speaking  evidently  with  a  very  clear  understanding 
of  what  these  accusations  meant.  The  schoolmistress  looked 
away  with  a  rather  shocked  expression,  and  thought  a  little 
before  speaking  again. 

"  Well,  that's  all  I  wanted  to  ask  you,  Harriet,"  she  said. 
"  I  won't  blame  you,  but  I  trust  you  will  do  as  I  wish,  and 
never  say  such  things  about  any  one  again,  whoever  may 
tell  you.  It  is  our  duty  never  to  speak  ill  of  others,  you 
know ;  least  of  all  when  we  know  that  to  do  so  will  be  the 
cause  of  much  pain  and  trouble.  I  hope  you  will  very  soon 
be  able  to  come  back  again  to  us.  And  now  I  will  say  good- 
bye." 

In  the  shop  Miss  Rutlievford  renewed  to  the  chemist  her 
sincere  regret  for  Avhat  had  taken  place. 

"  Of  course  I  cannot  risk  the  recurrence  of  such  a  thing," 
she  said.  "  The  child  who  did  it  will  not  return  to  me,  Mr. 
Smales." 

Mr.  Smales  uttered  incoherent  excuses,  apologies,  and 
thanks,  and  shufflingly  escorted  the  lady  to  his  shop-door. 

Miss  Rutherford  went  home  in  trouble.  She  did  not 
doubt  the  truth  of  what  Harriet  Smales  had  told  her,  for 
she  herself  had  already  entertained  uneasy  suspicions,  dating 
indeed  from  the  one  interview  she  had  had  with  Mrs.  Starr, 
when  Ida  was  first  brought  to  the  school,  and  deriving  con- 
firmation from  a  chance  meeting  in  the  street  only  a  few 
days  ago.  It  was  only  too  plain  what  she  must  do,  and  the 
necessity  grieved  her.  Ida  had  not  sliown  any  especial  bril- 
liancy at  her  books,  but  the  child's  character  was  a  remark- 
able one,  and  displayed  a  strength  which  might  eventually 
operate  either  for  good  or  for  evil.  With  careful  training, 
it  seemed  at  present  very  probable  that  the  good  would  pre- 
dominate. But  the  task  was  not  such  as  the  schoolmistress 
felt  able  to  undertake,  bearing  in  mind  the  necessity  of  an 
irreproachable  character  for  her  school  if  it  were  to  be  kept 
together  at  all.    The  disagreeable  secret  had  begun  to  spread  ; 


MOTHER  AND  CHILD  9 

all  the  children  would  relate  the  events  of  yesterday  in  their 
own  homes;  to  pass  the  thing  over  was  impossible.  She 
sincerely  regretted  the  step  she  must  take,  and  to  which  she 
would  not  have  felt  herself  driven  by  any  ill-placed  prudery 
of  her  own.  On  Monday  morning  it  must  be  stated  to  the 
girls  that  Ida  Starr  had  left. 

In  the  meantime,  it  only  remained  to  write  to  Mrs.  Starr, 
and  make  known  this  determination.  Miss  Rutherford 
thought  for  a  little  while  of  going  to  see  Ida's  mother,  l)ut 
felt  that  this  would  be  both  painful  and  useless.  It  was 
difficult  even  to  write,  desirous  as  she  was  of  somehow 
mitigating  the  harshness  of  this  sentence  of  expulsion. 
After  half-an-hour  spent  in  efforts  to  pen  a  suitable  note, 
she  gave  up  the  attempt  to  write  as  she  would  have  wished, 
and  announced  the  necessity  she  was  under  in  the  fewest 
possible  words. 


CHAPTEE  II 

MOTHER   AND    CHILD 

Ida  Starr,  dismissed  by  the  schoolmistress,  ran  quickly 
homewards.  She  was  unusually  late,  and  her  mother  would 
be  anxious.  Still,  when  she  came  within  sight  of  the  door, 
she  stopped  and  stood  panting.  How  should  she  tell  of  her 
disgrace?  It  was  not  fear  that  made  her  shrink  from  re- 
peating Miss  Rutherford's  message ;  nor  yet  shame,  thouj^li 
she  would  gladly  have  hidden  herself  away  somewhere  in 
the  dark  from  every  eye ;  her  overwhelming  concern  was 
for  the  pain  she  knew  she  was  going  to  cause  one  who  had 
always  cherished  her  with  faultless  tenderness, — tenderness 
which  it  had  become  her  nature  to  repay  with  a  child's 
unreflecting  devotion. 

Her  home  was  in  ^lilton  Street.  On  the  front-door  was 
a  brass- plate  which  bore  the  inscription:  "Mrs.  Ledward, 
Dressmaker ; "  in  the  window  of  the  ground-floor  was  a 
large  card  announcing  that  "Apartments"  were  vacant. 
The  only  light  was  one  which  appeared  in  the  top  storey, 
and  there  Ida  knew  tliat  her  mother  was  waiting  for  her, 
with  tea  ready  on  the  table  as  usual.  Mrs.  Starr  was  seldom 
at  home  during  the  child's  dinner-hour,  and  Ida  had  not 
seen  her  at  all  to-day.     For  it  was  only  occasionally  that 


lO  THE  UNCLASSED 

she  shared  her  mother's  bedroom ;  it  was  the  rule  for  her 
to  sleep  with  Mrs.  Ledward,  the  landlady,  who  was  a  widow 
and  without  children.  The  arrangement  had  held  ever  since 
Ida  could  remember ;  when  she  had  become  old  enough  to 
ask  for  an  explanation  of  this,  among  other  singularities  in 
their  mode  of  life,  she  was  told  that  her  mother  slept  badly, 
and  must  have  the  bed  to  herself. 

But  the  night  had  come  on,  and  every  moment  of  delay 
doubtless  increased  the  anxiety  she  was  causing.  Ida  went 
up  to  the  door,  stood  on  tiptoe  to  reach  the  knocker,  and 
gave  her  usual  two  distinct  raps.  Mrs.  Ledward  opened 
the  door  to  her  in  person ;  a  large  woman,  with  pressed  lips 
and  eyes  that  squinted  very  badly ;  attired,  however,  neatly, 
and  looking  as  good-natured  as  a  woman  who  was  at  once 
landlady  and  dressmaker  could  be  expected  to  look. 

"  How  's  't  you're  so  late  1 "  she  asked,  without  looking  at 
the  child ;  her  eyes,  as  far  as  one  could  guess,  fixed  upon  the 
houses  opposite,  her  hands  in  the  little  pocket  on  each  side 
of  her  apron.     "Your  mother's  poorly." 

"Oh,  then  I  shall  sleep  with  her  to-night?"  exclaimed 
Ida,  forgetting  her  trouble  for  the  moment  in  this  happy 
foresight. 

"  Dessay,"  returned  Mrs.  Ledward  laconically. 

Ida  left  her  still  standing  in  the  doorway,  and  ran  up- 
stairs. The  chamber  she  went  into— after  knocking  and 
receiving  permission  to  enter,  according  to  the  rule  which 
had  been  impressed  upon  her — was  a  tolerably-furnished 
bedroom,  which,  with  its  bright  fire,  tasteful  little  lamp, 
white  coverlets  and  general  air  of  fresh  orderliness,  made  a 
comfortable  appearance.  The  air  was  scented,  too,  with 
some  pleasant  odour  of  a  not  too  pungent  kind.  But  the 
table  lacked  one  customary  feature ;  no  tea  was  laid  as  it 
was  wont  to  be  at  this  hour.  The  child  gazed  round  in 
surprise.  Her  mother  was  in  bed,  lying  back  on  raised 
pillows,  and  with  a  restless,  half- pettish  look  on  her  face. 

"  Where  have  you  been  f "  she  asked  querulously,  her 
voice  husky  and  feeble,  as  if  from  a  severe  cold.  "  Why  are 
you  so  late  ? " 

Ida  did  not  answer  at  once,  but  went  straight  to  the  bed 
and  ofi'ered  the  accustomed  kiss.    Her  mother  waved  her  off". 

"  No,  no  ;  don't  kiss  me.  Can't  you  see  what  a  sore  throat 
I've  got  ?  You  might  catch  it.  And  I  haven't  got  you  any 
tea,"  she  went  on,  her  face  growing  to  a  calmer  expression 


MOTHER  AND  CHILD  11 

as  sho  gazed  at  tlie  chikL  "  Ain't  I  a  naughty  mother  ? 
But  it  serves  you  half  right  for  being  late.  Come  and  kiss 
me;  I  don't  think  it's  catching.  .No,  perhaps  you'd  better 
not."     • 

But  Ida  started  forward  at  the  granted  leave,  and  kissed 
her  warmly. 

"  There  now,"  went  on  the  hoarse  voice  complainingly,  "  I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  you  catch  it,  and  Ave  shall  both  be  laid 
up  at  once.  Oh,  Ida,  I  do  feel  that  poorly,  I  do !  It's  the 
draught  under  the  door ;  what  else  can  it  be  ?  I  do,  I  do 
feel  that  poorly  !  " 

She  began  to  cry  miserably.  Ida  forgot  all  about  the  tale 
she  had  to  tell ;  her  own  eyes  overflowed  in  sympathy.  She 
put  her  arm  under  her  mother's  neck,  and  pressed  cheek  to 
cheek  tenderly. 

"  Oh,  how  hot  you  are,  mother  !  Shall  I  get  you  a  cup  of 
tea,  dearl     Wouldn't  it  make  your  throat  better?" 

"Perhaps  it  would;  I  don't  know.  Don't  go  away,  not 
just  yet.  You'll  have  to  be  a  mother  to  me  to-night,  Ida. 
I  almost  feel  I  could  go  to  sleep,  if  you  held  me  like  that." 

She  closed  her  eyes,  but  only  for  a  moment,  then  started 
up  anxiously. 

"What  am  I  tiiinking  about !  Of  course  you  want  your 
tea." 

"  No,  no ;  indeed  I  don't,  mother." 

"  Nonsense  ;  of  course  you  do.  See,  the  kettle  is  on  the 
hob,  and  I  think  it's  full.  Go  away ;  you  make  me  hotter. 
Let  me  see  you  get  your  tea,  and  then  perhaps  it'll  make  me 
feel  I  could  drink  a  cup.  There,  you've  put  your  hair  all 
out  of  order ;  let  me  smooth  it.  Don't  trouble  to  lay  the 
cloth  ;  just  use  the  tray  ;  it's  in  the  cupboard." 

Ida  obeyed,  and  set  about  the  preparations.  Compare  her 
face  with  that  which  rested  sideways  upon  the  pillows,  and 
the  resemblance  was  as  strong  as  could  exist  between  two 
people  of  such  different  ages  :  the  same  rich-brown  hair,  the 
same  strongly-pencilled  eye-brows ;  the  deejvset  and  very 
dark  eyes,  the  fine  lips,  the  somewhat  prominent  jaw-bones, 
alike  in  both.  The  mother  was  twenty-eight,  the  daughter 
ten,  3'et  the  face  on  the  pillow  was  the  more  childish  at 
present.  In  the  mother's  eyes  was  a  helpless  look,  a  gaze  of 
unintelligent  misery,  such  as  one  could  not  conceive  on  Ida's 
countenance ;  her  lips,  too,  were  weakly  parted,  and  seemed 
trembling  to  a  sob,  whilst  sorrow  only  made  the  child  close 


12  THE  UNCLASSED 

hers  the  firmer.  In  the  one  case  a  pallor  not  merely  of 
present  illness,  but  that  wasting  whiteness  which  is  only 
seen  on  faces  accusttimed  to  borrow  artificial  hues ;  in  the 
other,  a  healthy  pearl-tint,  the  gleamings  and  gradations  of 
a  perfect  complexion.  The  one  a  child  long  lost  on  weary, 
wof  ul  ways,  knowing,  yet  untaught  by,  the  misery  of  desola- 
tion ;  the  other  a  cliild  still  standing  upon  the  misty  thresh- 
old of  unknown  lands,  looking  around  for  guidance,  yet 
already  half  feeling  that  the  sole  guide  and  comforter  was 
within. 

It  was  strancre  that  talk  wliich  followed  between  mother 
and  daughter.  Lotty  Starr  (that  was  the  name  of  the  elder 
child,  and  it  became  her  much  better  than  any  more  matronly 
appellation),  would  not  remain  silent,  in  spite  of  the  efibrts 
it  cost  her  to  speak,  and  her  conversation  ran  on  the  most 
trivial  topics.  Except  at  occasional  moments,  she  spoke  to 
Ida  as  to  one  of  her  own  age,  with  curious  neglect  of  the 
relationship  between  them ;  at  times  she  gave  herself  up  to 
the  luxury  of  feeling  like  an  infant  dependent  on  another's 
care  ;  and  cried  just  for  the  pleasure  of  being  petted  and  con- 
soled. Ida  had  made  up  her  mind  to  leave  her  disclosure 
till  the  next  morning ;  impossible  to  grieve  her  mother  with 
such  shocking  news  when  she  was  so  poorly.  Yet  the  little 
girl  with  difficulty  kept  a  cheerful  countenance  ;  as  often  as 
a  moment's  silence  left  her  to  her  own  reflections  she  was 
reminded  of  the  heaviness  of  heart  which  made  speaking  an 
effort.  To  bear  up  under  the  secret  thought  of  her  crime 
and  its  consequences  required  in  Ida  Starr  a  courage  diffe- 
rent alike  in  quality  and  degree  from  that  of  which  children 
are  ordinarily  capable.  One  compensation  alone  helped  her ; 
it  was  still  early  in  the  evening,  and  she  knew  there  were 
before  her  long  hours  to  be  spent  by  her  mother's  side. 

"Do  you  like  me  to  be  with  you,  mother?"  she  asked, 
when  a  timid  question  had  at  length  elicited  assurance  of 
this  joy.     "  Does  it  make  you  feel  better?  " 

"  Yes,  yes.  But  it's  my  throat,  and  you  can't  make  that 
better;  I  only  wish  you  could.  But  you  are  a  comfort  to 
me,  for  all  that ;  I  don't  know  what  I  should  do  without 
you.     Oh,  I  sha'n't  be  able  to  speak  a  word  soon,  I  sha'n't ! " 

"Don't,  don't  talk,  dear.  I'll  talk  instead,  and  you 
listen.  Don't  you  think,  mother  dear,  I  could — could  always 
sleep  with  you  1  1  wouldn't  disturb  you  ;  indeed,  indeed  I 
wouldn't !     You  don't  know  how  quiet  I  lie.     If  I'm  wake- 


MOTHER  AND  CHILD  13 

ful  ever  I  seem  to  have  such  a  lot  to  think  about,  and  I  lie 
so  still  and  quiet,  you  can't  think.  I  never  wake  Mrs.  Led- 
ward,  indeed.     Do  let  me,  mother  ;  just  try  me  1 " 

Lotty  broke  out  into  passionate  weeping,  wrung  her  hands, 
and  hid  her  face  in  the  pillow.  Ida  was  terrified,  and  exerted 
every  effort  to  console  this  strange  grief.  The  outburst  only 
endured  a  minute  or  two,  however ;  then  a  mood  of  vexed 
impatience  grew  out  of  the  anguish  and  despair,  and  Lotty 
pushed  away  the  child  fretfully. 

"  I've  often  told  you,  you  can't,  you  mustn't  bother  me. 
There,  there  ;  you  don't  mean  any  harm,  but  you  put  me 
out,  bothering  me,  Ida.  Tell  me,  Avhat  do  you  think  about 
when  you  lay  awake  1  Don't  you  think  you'd  give  anything 
to  get  off  to  sleep  again  ]  I  know  I  do ;  I  can't  bear  to 
think  ;  it  makes  my  head  ache  so." 

"  Oh,  I  like  it.  Sometimes  I  think  over  Avhat  I've  been 
reading,  in  the  animal  book,  and  the  geography-book  ;  and — 
and  then  I  begin  my  wi.shing-thoughts.  And  oh,  I've  such 
lots  of  Avisliing-thoughts,  you  couldn't  believe  !  " 

"And  what  are  the  wishing- thoughts  about?"  inquired 
the  mother,  in  a  matter-of-fact  way. 

"  I  often  wish  I  was  grown  up.  I  feel  tired  of  being  a 
child  ;  I  want  to  be  a  woman.  Then  I  should  know  so  much 
more,  and  I  should  be  able  to  understand  all  the  things  you 
tell  me  I  can't  now.  I  don't  care  for  playing  at  games  and 
going  to  school." 

"  You'll  be  a  woman  soon  enough,  Ida,"  said  Lotty,  with 
a  quiet  sadness  unusual  in  her.     "  But  go  on  ;  what  else?" 

"And  then  I  often  wish  I  was  a  boy.  It  must  be  so 
much  nicer  to  be  a  boy.  They're  stronger  than  girls,  and 
they  know  more.     Don't  you  wish  I  was  a  boy,  mother?" 

"  Yes,  I  do,  I  often  do  !  "  exclainipd  Lotty.  "  Boys  aren't 
such  a  trouble,  and  they  can  go  out  and  shift  for  them- 
selves." 

"  Oh,  but  I  won't  be  a  trouble  to  you,"  exclaimed  Ida. 
"When  I'm  old  enough  to  leave  school " 

She  interrupted  herself,  for  the  moment  she  had  actually 
forgotten  the  misfortune  which  had  come  upon  her.  But 
her  mother  did  not  observe  the  falling  of  her  countenance, 
nor  yet  the  incomplete  sentence. 

"Ida,  have  I  been  a  bad  mother  to  you?"  Lotty  sobbed 
out  presently.     "  If  I  was  to  die,  would  you  be  sorry  ? " 

"  Mother ! " 


14  THE  UNCLASSED 

"  I've  done  my  best,  indeed  I've  done  my  best  for  you  I 
How  many  mothers  like  me  would  have  brought  you  up  as 
I've  done?  How  many,  I'd  like  to  know?  And  some  day 
you'll  hate  me ;  oh  yes,  you  will !  Some  day  you'U  wish  to 
forget  all  about  me,  and  you'll  never  come  to  see  where  I'm 
buried,  and  you'll  get  rid  of  everything  that  could  remind 
you  of  me.     How  I  wish  I'd  never  been  born !  " 

Ida  had  often  to  comfort  her  mother  in  the  latter's  fits  of 
low  spirits,  but  had  never  heard  such  sad  words  as  these 
before.  The  poor  child  could  say  nothing  in  reply ;  the 
terrible  thought  that  she  herself  was  bringing  new  woes  to 
be  endured  almost  broke  her  heart.  She  clung  about  her 
mother's  neck  and  wept  passionately. 

Lotty  shortly  after  took  a  draught  from  a  bottle  which  the 
child  reached  out  of  a  drawer  for  her,  and  lay  pretty  still 
till  drowsiness  came  on.  Ida  undressed  and  crept  to  her 
side.  They  had  a  troubled  night,  and,  when  the  daylight 
came  again,  Lotty  was  no  better.  Ida  rose  in  anguish  of 
spirit,  torturing  herself  to  find  a  way  of  telling  what  must 
be  told.  Yet  she  had  another  respite ;  her  mother  said 
that,  as  it  was  Saturday,  she  might  as  well  stay  away  from 
school  and  be  a  little  nurse.  And  the  dull  day  wore  through  ; 
the  confession  being  still  postponed. 

But  by  the  last  post  at  night  came  Miss  Rutherford's 
letter.  Ida  was  still  sitting  up,  and  Lotty  had  fallen  into  a 
doze,  when  the  landlady  brought  the  letter  upstairs.  The 
child  took  it  in,  answered  an  inquiry  about  her  mother  in  a 
whisper,  and  returned  to  the  bedside.  She  knew  the  hand- 
writing on  the  envelope.     The  dreaded  moment  had  come. 

She  must  have  stood  more  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour, 
motionless,  gazing  on  her  mother's  face,  conscious  of  nothing 
but  an  agonised  expectation  of  seeing  the  sleeper's  eyes  open. 
They  did  open  at  length,  and  quickly  saw  the  letter. 

"  It's  from  Miss  Rutherford,  mother,"  said  Ida,  her  own 
voice  sounding  very  strange  to  herself. 

"  Oh,  is  it  1 "  said  Lotty,  in  the  hoarse  whisper  which  was 
all  she  could  command.  "  I  suppose  she  wants  to  know  why 
you  didn't  go.     Read  it  to  me." 

Ida  read,  and,  in  reading,  suffered  as  she  never  did  again 
throughout  her  life. 

"  Deau  Mks.  Starr, — I  am  very  sorry  to  have  to  say  that 
Ida  must  not  return  to  school     I  had  better  leave  tb' 


MOTHER  AND  CHILD  15 

explanation  to  herself;  she  is  truthful,  and  will  tell  you 
what  has  compelled  me  to  take  this  step.  I  grieve  to  lose 
her,  hut  have  really  no  choice. — I  am,  yours  truly, 

H.  Rutherford." 

No  tears  rose ;  her  voice  was  as  firm  as  though  she  had 
been  reading  in  class  ;  but  she  was  pale  and  cold  as  death. 

I-otty  rose  in  bed  and  stared  wildly. 

"  What  have  you  done,  child  1 — what  ever  have  you  done  1 
Is — is  it  anything — about  me  f  " 

"  I  hit  Harriet  Smales  with  a  slate,  and  covered  her  all 
over  with  blood,  and  I  thought  I'd  killed  her." 

She  could  not  meet  her  mother's  eyes ;  stood  with  head 
hung  down,  and  her  hands  clasped  behind  her. 

"  What  made  you  do  it?"  asked  Lotty  in  amazement. 

"  I  couldn't  help  it,  mother ;  she — she  said  you  were  a 
bad  woman." 

Ida  had  raised  her  eyes  with  a  look  of  love  and  proud 
confidimce.  Lotty  shrank  before  her,  clutched  convulsively 
at  tlie  bed-clothes,  then  half  raised  herself  and  dashed  her 
head  with  fearful  violence  against  the  wall  by  which  the 
bed  stood.  She  fell  back,  half  stunned,  and  lay  on  the 
piUows,  whilst  the  child,  with  outstretched  hands,  gazed 
horror-struck.  But  in  a  moment  Ida  had  her  arms  around 
the  distraught  woman,  pressing  the  dazed  head  against  her 
breast.  Lotty  began  to  utter  incoherent  self-reproaches, 
unintelligible  to  her  little  comforter  ;  her  voice  had  become 
the  merest  whisper ;  she  seemed  to  have  quite  exhausted 
herself.  Just  now  there  came  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  Ida 
was  relieved  to  see  Mrs.  Ledward,  whose  help  she  begged. 
In  a  few  minutes  Lotty  had  come  to  herself  again,  and 
Avhispered  that  she  wished  to  speak  to  the  landlady  alone. 
The  latter  persuaded  Ida  to  go  downstairs  for  a  while,  and 
the  child,  whose  tears  had  begun  to  flow,  left  the  room, 
sobbing  in  anguish. 

"  Ain't  you  better  then  1 "  asked  the  woman,  with  an 
apparent  effort  to  speak  in  a  sympathetic  tone  which  did 
not  come  easily  to  her. 

"  I'm  very  bad,"  whispered  the  other,  drawing  her  breath 
as  if  in  pain. 

"Ay,  you've  got  a  bad  cold,  that's  what  it  is.  I'll  make 
you  some  gruel  presently,  and  put  some  rum  in  it.  You 
don't  take  care  of  yourself :  I  told  you  how  it  'ud  be  when 


i6  THE  UNCLASSED 

you  came  in  with  those  wringin'  things  on,  on  Thursday 
night." 

"They've  found  out  ahout  me  at  the  school,"  gasped 
Lotty,  with  a  despairing  look,  "  and  Ida's  got  sent  away." 

"She  has?  Well,  never  mind,  you  can  find  another,  I 
suppose.  I  can't  see  myself  Avhat  she  wants  with  so  much 
schoolin',  but  I  suppose  you  know  best  about  your  own 
aflfairs." 

"  Oh,  I  feel  that  bad  !  If  I  get  over  this,  I'll  give  it  up — 
God  help  me,  I  will !  I'll  get  my  living  honest,  if  there's 
any  way.     I  never  felt  so  bad  as  I  do  now." 

"  Pooh !"  exclaimed  the  woman.  "Wait  a  bit  till  you 
get  rid  of  your  sore  throat,  and  you'll  think  different. 
Poorly  people  gets  all  sorts  o'  fancies.  Keep  a  bit  quiet 
now,  and  don't  put  yourself  out  so." 

"  What  are  we  to  do  1    I've  only  got  a  few  shillings " 

"  Well,  you'll  have  money  again  some  time,  I  suppose. 
You  don't  suppose  I'll  turn  you  out  in  the  streets  1  Write 
to  Fred  on  Monday,  and  he'll  send  you  sometliing." 

They  talked  till  Lotty  exhausted  herself  again,  then  Ida 
was  allowed  to  re-enter  the  room.  Mrs.  Ledward  kept 
coming  and  going  till  her  own  bed-time,  giving  what  help 
and  comfort  she  could  in  her  hard,  half-indifferent  way. 
Another  night  passed,  and  in  the  morning  Lotty  seemed 
a  little  better.  Her  throat  was  not  so  painful,  but  she 
breathed  with  difficulty,  and  had  a  cough.  Ida  sat  holding 
her  mother's  hand.  It  was  a  sunny  morning,  and  the  bells 
of  neighbouring  churches  began  to  ring  out  clearly  on  the 
frosty  air. 

"  Ida,"  said  the  sick  woman,  raising  herself  suddenly, 
"  get  me  some  note-paper  and  an  envelope  out  of  the  box ; 
and  go  and  borrow  pen  and  ink,  there's  a  good  child." 

The  materials  were  procured,  and,  with  a  great  effort, 
Lotty  managed  to  arrange  herself  so  as  to  be  able  to  write. 
She  covered  four  pages  with  a  sad  scrawl,  closed  the 
envelope,  and  was  about  to  direct  it,  but  paused. 

"The  bells  have  stopped,"  she  said,  listening.  "It's 
half- past  eleven.     Put  on  your  things,  Ida." 

The  child  obeyed,  wondering. 

"Give  me  my  purse  out  of  the  drawer.  See,  there's  a 
shilling.  Now,  say  this  after  me  :  ]\Ir.  Abra'm  Woodstock, 
Number  — ,  St.  John  Street  Road." 

Ida  repeated  the  address. 


MOTHER  AND  CHILD  17 

"Now,  listen,  Ida.  You  put  this  letter  in  your  pocket; 
you  go  down  into  the  Mary'bone  road ;  you  ask  for  a  'bus 
to  the  Angel.  When  you  get  to  the  Angel,  you  ask  your 
way  to  Number  — ,  St.  John  Street  Road ;  it  isn't  far  off. 
Knock  at  the  door,  and  ask  if  Mr.  Abra'm  Woodstock  is  in. 
If  he  is,  say  you  want  to  see  him,  and  then  give  him  this 
letter, — into  his  own  hands,  and  nobody  else's.  If  he  isn't 
in,  ask  when  he  will  be,  and,  if  it  won't  be  long,  wait." 

Ida  promised,  and  then,  after  a  long  gaze,  her  mother 
dropped  back  again  on  the  pillow,  and  turned  her  face  away. 
A  cough  shook  her  for  a  few  moments.     Ida  waited. 

"  "Well,  ain't  you  gone  1 "  asked  Lotty  faintly. 

"  Kiss  me,  mother." 

They  held  each  other  in  a  passionate  embrace,  and  then 
the  child  went  away. 

She  reached  Islington  without  difficulty,  and  among  the 
bustling  and  loitering  crowd  which  obstructs  the  corner  at 
the  Angel,  found  some  one  to  direct  her  to  the  street  she 
sought.  She  had  to  walk  some  distance  down  St.  John 
Street  Road,  in  the  direction  of  the  City,  before  discovering 
the  house  she  desired  to  find.  When  she  reached  it,  it  proved 
to  be  a  very  dingy  tenement,  the  ground-floor  apparently 
used  as  offices;  a  much-worn  plate  on  the  door  exhibited 
the  name  of  the  gentleman  to  whom  her  visit  was,  with 
his  profes-sional  description  added.  Mr.  Woodstock  Avas  an 
accountant. 

She  rang  the  bell,  and  a  girl  appeared.  Yes,  Mr.  Wood- 
stock was  at  home.  Ida  was  told  to  enter  the  passage,  and 
wait. 

A  door  at  her  right  hand  as  she  entered  was  slightly  ajar, 
and  voices  could  be  heard  from  the  other  side  of  it.  One 
of  these  voices  very  shortly  raised  itself  in  a  harsh  and 
angry  tone,  and  Ida  could  catch  what  was  said. 

"  Well,  Mr.  What's-your-name,  I  suppose  I  know  my 
own  business  rather  better  than  you  can  teach  me.  It's 
pretty  clear  you've  been  doing  your  best  for  some  time  to 
set  the  people  against  me,  and  I'm  damned  if  I'll  have  it ! 
You  go  to  the  place  on  religious  pretences,  and  what  your 
real  object  may  be  I  don't  know ;  but  I  do  know  one  thing, 
and  that  is,  I  won't  have  you  hanging  about  any  longer. 
I'll  meet  you  there  myself,  and  if  it's  a  third- floor  window 
you  get  pitched  out  of,  well,  it  won't  be  my  fault.  Now 
I  don't  want  any  more  talk  with  you.     This  is  moet  folks' 

B 


i8  THE  UN  CLASSED 

praying-time ;  I  wonder  you're  not  at  it.  It's  my  time  for 
writing'  letters,  and  I'd  rather  have  your  room  than  your 
company.  I'm  a  plain-spoken  man,  you  see,  a  man  of 
business,  and  I  don't  mince  matters.  To  come  and  dictate 
to  me  about  the  state  of  my  houses  and  of  my  tenants  ain't 
a  business-like  pmceeding,  and  you'll  excuse  me  if  I  don't 
take  it  kindly.  There's  the  door,  and  good  morning  to 
you  ! " 

The  door  opened,  and  a  young  man,  looking  pale  and 
dismayed,  came  out  quickly,  and  at  once  left  the  house. 
Ijchind  him  came  the  last  speaker.  At  the  siglit  of  the 
wailing  child  he  stood  still,  and  the  expression  of  his  face 
chajiged  from  sour  annoyance  to  annoyed  surprise. 

"Khi  Weill"  he  exclaimed,  looking  closely  at  Ida,  his 
eye-brows  contracting. 

"1  have  a  letter  for  Mr.  Abra'm  Woodstock,  sir." 

"  AVell,  give  it  here.     Who's  it  from  1 " 

"Mrs.  8lai-r,  sir." 

"  AVho's  Mrs.  Starr  ?     Come  in  here,  will  you  1 " 

His  short  and  soruewhat  angry  tone  was  evidently  in 
some  degree  the  result  of  the  interview  that  had  just  closed, 
but  also  pretty  clearly  an  indication  of  his  general  manner 
to  strangers.  He  let  the  child  pass  him,  and  followed  her 
into  the  room  with  the  letter  in  his  hand.  He  did  not 
seem  able  to  remove  his  eyes  from  her  face.  Ida,  on  her 
side,  did  not  dare  to  look  up  at  him.  He  was  a  massively 
built,  grey-ht^aded  man  of  something  more  than  sixty, 
Kverytliing  about  him  expressed  strength  and  determina- 
tion, power  alike  of  body  and  mind.  His  features  were 
large  and  heavy,  but  the  forehead  would  have  become  a 
man  of  strong  intellect ;  the  eyes  were  full  of  astonishing 
vital  force,  and  the  chin  was  a  phj'^siognomical  study,  so 
strikingly  did  its  moulding  express  em^rgy  of  character. 
He  was  clean-shaven,  and  scarcely  a  seam  or  wrinkle  any- 
where broke  the  hard,  smooth  surface  of  his  visage,  its 
cuiiijilexion  clear  and  rosy  as  that  of  a  child. 

Still  regarding  Ida,  he  tore  open  the  envelope.  At  the 
sight  of  the  writing  he,  not  exactly  started,  but  moved  his 
head  rather  suddenly,  and  again  turned  his  eyes  upon  the 
messenger. 

"  Sit  down,"  he  said,  pointing  to  a  chair.  The  room  was 
an  uncomfortable  office,  Avith  no  fire.  He  himself  took  a 
seat  deliberately  at  a  desk,  Avhence  he  could  watch  Ida,  and 


ANTECEDENTS  19 

began  to  read.  As  he  did  so,  his  face  remained  unmoved, 
.  but  he  looked  away  occasionally,  as  if  to  reflect. 

"What's  your  name?"  he  asked,  when  he  had  finished, 
beginning,  at  the  same  time,  to  tear  the  letter  into  very  small 
pieces,  which  he  threw  into  a  waste-paper  basket. 

"  Ida,  sir, — Ida  Starr." 

"  Starr,  eh  1 "  He  looked  at  her  very  keenly,  and,  still 
looking,  and  still  tearing  up  the  letter,  went  on  in  a  hard, 
unmodulated  voice.  "  Well,  Ida  Starr,  it  seems  your  motlicr 
wants  to  put  you  in  the  way  of  earning  your  living."  The 
child  looked  up  in  fear  and  astonishment.  "  You  can  carry 
a  message?  You'll  say  to  your  mother  that  I'll  undertake 
to  do  what  I  can  for  you,  on  one  condition,  and  that  is  that 
she  puts  you  in  my  hands  and  never  sees  you  again." 

"  Oh,  I  can't  leave  mother  ! "  burst  from  the  child's  lips 
involuntarily,  her  horror  overcoming  her  fear  of  the  s])eaker. 

"  I  didn't  ask  you  if  you  could,"  remarked  Mr.  Woodstock, 
with  something  like  a  sneer,  tapping  the  desk  with  the 
fingers  of  his  right  hand.  "I  asked  whether  you  could 
carry  a  message.     Can  you,  or  not  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  can,"  stammered  Ida. 

"  Then  take  that  message,  and  tell  your  mother  it's  all  I've 
got  to  say.     Run  away." 

He  rose  and  stood  with  his  hands  behind  him,  watching 
her.  Ida  made  what  haste  she  could  to  the  door,  and  sped 
out  into  the  street. 


CHAPTER   III 

ANTECEDENTS 

It  would  not  have  been  easy  to  find  another  instance  of  a 
union  of  keen  intellect  and  cold  heart  so  singular  as  that 
displayed  in  the  character  of  Abraham  Woodstock.  The 
man's  life  had  been  strongly  consistent  from  the  beginning; 
from  boyhood  a  powerful  will  had  borne  him  triumphantly 
over  every  difficulty,  and  in  each  decisive  instance  his  Avill 
had  been  directed  by  a  shrewd  intelligence  which  knew  at 
once  the  strength  of  its  own  resources  and  the  multiplied 
weaknesses  of  the  vast  majority  of  men.  In  the  pursuit  of 
his  ends  he  would  tolerate  no  obstacle  which  his  strength 
would  suffice  to  remove.     In  boyhood  and  early  manhood 


20  THE  UNCLASSED 

the  exuberance  of  his  physical  power  was  wont  to  manifest 
itself  in  brutal  self-assertion.  At  school  he  was  the  worst 
kind  of  bully,  his  ferociousness  tempered  by  no  cowardice. 
Later  on,  he  learned  that  a  too  demonstrative  bearing  would 
on  many  occasions  interfere  Avith  his  success  in  life  ;  he  toned 
down  his  love  of  muscular  victory,  and  only  allowed  him- 
self an  outbreak  every  now  and  then,  when  he  felt  he  could 
afford  the  indulgecne.  Put  early  into  an  accountant's  office, 
and  losing  his  father  about  the  same  time  (the  parent,  who 
had  a  diseased  heart,  was  killed  by  an  outburst  of  fnry  to 
which  Abraham  gave  way  on  some  trivial  occasion),  he  had 
henceforth  to  fight  his  own  battle,  and  showed  himself  very 
capable  of  winning  it.  In  many  strange  ways  he  accumulated 
a  little  capital,  and  the  development  of  commercial  genius  put 
him  at  a  comparatively  early  age  on  the  road  to  fortune. 
He  kept  to  the  business  of  an  accountant,  and  by  degrees 
added  several  other  distinct  callings.  He  became  a  lender 
of  money  in  several  shapes,  keeping  both  a  loan-office  and 
a  pawnbroker's  shop.  In  middle  age  he  frequented  the 
race-course,  but,  for  sufficient  reason^!,  dropped  that  pursuit 
entirely  before  he  had  turned  his  fiftieth  year.  As  a  youth 
he  had  made  a  good  thing  of  games  of  skill,  but  did  not 
pursue  them  as  a  means  of  profit  when  he  no  longer  needed 
the  resource. 

He  married  at  the  age  of  thirty.  This,  like  every  other 
step  he  took,  was  well  planned  ;  his  wife  brought  him  several 
thousand  pounds,  being  the  daughter  of  a  retired  publican 
with  whom  Woodstock  had  had  business  relations. 

Two  years  after  his  marriage  was  born  his  first  and  only 
child,  a  gill  whom  they  called  Lotty.  Lotty,  as  she  grew 
up,  gradually  developed  an  unfortunate  combination  of  her 
parents'  qualities ;  she  had  her  mother's  weakness  of  mind, 
without  her  mother's  moral  sense,  and  from  her  father  she 
derived  an  ingrained  stubbornness,  which  had  nothing  in 
common  with  strength  of  character.  Doubly  unhappy  was 
it  that  she  lost  her  mother  so  early ;  the  loss  deprived  her 
of  gentle  guidance  during  her  youth,  and  left  her  without 
resource  against  her  father's  coldness  or  harshness.  The 
result  was  that  the  softer  elements  of  her  character  unavoid- 
ably degenerated  and  found  expression  in  qualities  not  at  all 
admirable,  whilst  her  obstinacy  grew  the  ally  of  the  weak- 
ness from  which  she  had  most  to  fear. 

Lotty  was  sent  to  a  day-school  till  the  age  of  thirteen,  then 


ANTECEDENTS  21 

had  to  become  her  father's  housekeeper.  Her  friends  were 
very  few,  none  of  them  likely  to  be  of  use  to  her.  Left  very 
much  to  her  own  control,  she  made  an  acquaintance  which 
led  to  secret  intimacy  and  open  disa-^ter.  Rather  than  face 
her  father  with  such  a  disclosure,  she  left  home,  and  threw 
herself  upon  the  mercy  of  the  man  who  had  assisted  her  to 
go  astray.  He  was  generous  enough  to  support  her  for  about 
a  year,  during  which  time  her  child  was  born.  Then  his 
help  ceased. 

The  familiar  choice  lay  before  her — home  again,  the  streets, 
or  starvation.  Hardship  she  could  not  bear;  the  second 
alternative  she  shrank  from  on  account  of  her  child;  she 
determined  to  face  her  father.  For  him  she  had  no  affection, 
and  knew  that  he  did  not  love  her ;  only  desperation  could 
drive  her  back.  She  came  one  Sunday  evening,  found  Mr. 
Woodstock  at  home,  and,  without  letting  the  servant  say 
who  was  come,  went  up  and  entered  his  presence,  the  child 
in  her  arms.  Abraham  rose  and  looked  at  her  calmly.  Her 
disappearance  had  not  troubled  him,  though  he  had  exerted 
himself  to  discover  why  and  whither  she  was  gone,  and  her 
return  did  not  visibly  affect  him.  She  was  a  rebel  against 
his  authority — so  he  viewed  the  matter — and  consequently 
quite  beyond  the  range  of  his  sympathies.  He  listened  to 
all  she  had  to  say,  beheld  unmoved  her  miserable  tears,  and, 
when  she  became  silent,  coolly  delivered  his  ultimatum. 
For  her  he  would  procure  a  situation,  whereby  she  could 
earn  her  living,  and  therewith  his  relations  to  her  would 
end ;  the  child  he  would  put  into  other  hands  and  have  it 
cared  for,  but  Lotty  would  lose  sight  of  it  for  ever.  The 
girl  hesitated,  but  the  maternal  instinct  was  very  strong  in 
her ;  the  little  one  began  to  cry,  as  if  fearing  separation  from 
its  mother ;  she  decided  to  refuse. 

"  Then  I  shall  go  on  the  streets ! "  she  exclaimed  passion- 
ately.    "  There's  nothing  else  left  for  me." 

"You  can  go  where  you  please,"  returned  Abraham. 

She  tried  to  obtain  work,  of  course  fruitlessly.  She  got 
into  debt  with  her  landlady,  and  only  took  the  fatal  step 
when  at  length  absolutely  turned  adrift. 

That  was  not  quite  ten  years  gone  by ;  she  was  then  but 
eighteen.  Let  her  have  lost  her  child,  and  she  would 
speedily  have  fallen  into  the  last  stages  of  degradation.  But 
the  little  one  lived.  She  had  called  it  Ida,  a  name  chosen 
from  some  tale  in  the  penny  weeklies,  which  were  the  solace 


22  THE  UNCLASSED 

of  her  misery.     She  herself  took  the  name  of  Starr,  also 
from  a  page  of  fiction. 

Balancing  the  good  and  evil  of  this  life  in  her  dark  little 
mind,  Lotty  determined  that  one  thing  there  was  for  which 
it  was  worth  while  to  make  sacrifices,  one  end  which  she  felt 
strong  enough  to  keep  persistently  in  view,  Ida  should  be 
brought  up  "  respectably " — it  was  her  own  word ;  she 
should  be  kept  absolutely  free  from  the  contamination  of 
her  mother's  way  of  living ;  nay,  should,  wlien  the  time 
came,  go  to  school,  and  have  good  chances.  And  at  the  end 
of  all  this  Avas  a  far-off  hope,  a  dim  vision  of  possibilities,  a 
vague  trust  that  her  daughter  might  perchance  prove  for  her 
a  means  of  returning  to  that  world  of  "respectability"  from 
which  she  was  at  present  so  hopelessly  shut  out.  She  would 
keep  making  efforts  to  get  into  an  honest  livelihood  as  often 
as  an  occasion  presented  itself ;  and  Ida  should  always  live 
with  "  respectable  "  people,  cost  what  it  might. 

The  last  resolution  was  only  adhered  to  for  a  few  months. 
Lotty  could  not  do  without  her  little  one,  and  eventually 
brought  it  back  to  her  own  home.  It  is  not  an  infrequent 
thing  to  find  little  children  living  in  disorderly  houses.  In 
the  [)rofession  Lotty  had  chosen  there  are,  as  in  all  profes- 
sions, grades  and  differences.  8he  was  by  no  means  a  vicious 
girl,  she  had  no  love  of  riot  for  its  own  sake ;  she  would 
greatly  have  preferred  a  decent,  mode  of  life,  had  it  seemed 
practicable.  Hence  she  did  not  associate  herself  with  the 
rank  and  file  of  abandoned  women  ;  her  resorts  were  not  the 
crowded  centres ;  her  abode  was  not  in  the  quarters  conse- 
crated to  her  business.  In  all  parts  of  London  there  are 
quiet  by-streets  of  houses  given  x^l^  to  lodging-letting,  wherein 
are  to  be  found  many  landladies,  who,  good  easy  souls, 
trouble  little  about  the  private  morals  of  their  lodgers,  so 
long  as  no  positive  disorder  comes  about  and  no  public  scan- 
dal is  occasioned.  A  girl  who  says  that  she  is  occupied  in 
a  workroom  is  never  presumed  to  be  able  to  afford  the  luxury 
of  strict  virtue,  and  if  such  a  one,  on  taking  a  room,  says 
that  "she  supposes  she  may  have  friends  come  to  see  her?" 
the  landlady  will  understand  quite  well  what  is  meant,  and 
will  either  accept  or  refuse  her  for  a  lodger  as  she  sees  good. 
To  such  houses  as  these  Lotty  confined  herself.  After  some 
three  or  four  years  of  various  experiences,  she  hit  upon  the 
abode  in  Milton  Street,  and  there  had  dwelt  ever  since.  She 
got  on  well  with  Mrs.  Led  ward,  and  had  been  able  to  make 


ANTECEDENTS  23 

comfortable  arrangements  for  Ida.  The  otlier  lodgers  in  the 
house  Avere  generally  very  quiet  and  orderly  })eople,  and  she 
herself  was  quite  successful  in  arranging  her  affairs  so  as  to 
create  no  disturbance.  She  had  her  regular  clientele ;  she 
frequented  the  roads  about  Regent's  Park  and  Primrose  Hill ; 
and  she  supported  herself  and  her  child. 

Ida  Starr's  bringing  up  was  in  no  respect  inferior  to  that 
she  would  have  received  in  the  home  of  the  average  London 
artisan  or  small  tradesman.  At  five  years  old  she  had  begun 
to  go  to  school ;  ^Irs.  Ledward's  daughter,  a  girl  of  seven- 
teen, took  her  backwards  and  forwards  every  day.  At  this 
school  she  remained  three  years  and  a  half  ;  then  her  mother 
took  her  away,  and  put  her  under  the  care  of  Miss  Rutherford, 
a  better  teacher.  When  at  home,  she  either  amused  herself 
in  Lotty's  room,  or,  when  that  was  engaged,  made  herself 
comfortable  with  Mrs.  Ledward's  family,  with  one  or  other 
of  whom  she  generally  passed  the  night.  She  heard  no  bad 
language,  saw  nothing  improper,  listened  to  no  worse  con- 
versation than  any  of  the  other  children  at  Miss  Rutherford's. 
Even  at  her  present  age  of  ten  it  never  occurred  to  her  to 
inquire  how  her  mother  supported  herself.  The  charges 
brought  by  Harriet  Smales  conveyed  to  her  mind  no  con- 
ception of  their  true  meaning  ;  they  were  to  her  mere  general 
calumnies  of  vague  application.  Her  mother  "  bad,"  indeed  ! 
If  so,  then  what  was  the  meaning  of  goodness  %  For  poor 
Lotty's  devotion  to  the  child  had  received  its  due  reward 
herein,  that  she  was  loved  as  purely  and  intensely  as  any 
most  virtuous  parent  could  hope  to  be ;  so  little  regard  has 
nature  for  social  codes,  so  utterly  is  she  often  opposed  to  all 
the  precepts  of  respectability.  This  phrase  of  Harriet's  was 
the  very  first  breathing  against  her  mother's  character  that 
Ida  had  ever  heard.  Lotty  had  invented  fables,  for  the 
child's  amusement,  about  her  own  earlier  days.  The  legend 
was,  that  her  husband  bad  died  about  a  year  after  marriage. 
Of  course  Ida  implicitly  believed  all  this.  Her  mind  con- 
tained pictures  of  a  beautiful  little  house  just  outside  London 
in  which  her  mother  had  once  lived,  and  her  imagination 
busied  itself  with  the  time  when  they  would  both  live  in 
just  that  same  way.  She  was  going  to  be  a  teacher,  so  it 
had  been  decided  in  confidential  chats,  and  would  one  day 
have  a  school  of  her  own.  In  such  a  future  Lotty  herself 
really  believed.  The  child  seemed  to  her  extraordinarily 
clever,  and  in  four  more  years  she  would  be  as  old  as  a  girl 


24  THE  UNCLASSED 

wlio  liaJ,  assisted  with  the  little  ones  in  the  first  school  she  went 
to.  Lotty  was  ambitious.  Offers  of  Mrs.  Ledward  to  teach 
Ida  dressmaking,  she  had  put  aside ;  it  was  not  good  enough. 

Yet  Ida  was  not  in  reality  remarkable  either  for  industry 
or  quickness  in  learning.  At  both  schools  she  had  frequently 
to  be  dealt  with  somewhat  severely.  Ability  sh«  showed 
from  time  to  time,  but  in  application  she  was  sadly  lacking. 
Books  were  distasteful  to  her,  more  even  than  to  most  chil- 
dren ;  she  learned  sometimes  by  listening  to  the  teacher,  but 
seldom  the  lessons  given  her  to  prepare.  At  home  there 
were  no  books  to  tempt  her  to  read  for  herself ;  her  mother 
never  read,  and  would  not  have  known  how  to  set  about 
giving  her  child  a  love  for  such  occupation,  even  had  she 
deemed  it  needful.  And  yet  Ida  always  seemed  to  have 
abundance  to  think  about;  she  would  sit  by  herself  for 
hours,  without  any  childlike  employment,  and  still  not  seem 
weary.  When  asked  what  her  thoughts  ran  upon,  she  could 
not  give  very  satisfactory  answers ;  she  was  always  rather 
slow  in  expressing  herself,  and  never  chattered,  even  to  her 
mother.  One  queer  and  most  unchildlike  habit  she  had, 
wliich,  as  if  thinking  it  wrong,  she  only  indulged  when  quite 
alone ;  she  loved  to  sit  before  a  looking-glass  and  gaze  into 
her  own  face.  At  such  times  her  little  countenance  became 
very  sad  without  any  understood  reason. 

The  past  summer  had  been  to  her  a  time  of  happiness,  for 
there  had  come  comparatively  little  bad  weather,  and  sunshine 
was  like  wine  to  Ida.  The  proximity  of  the  park  was  a  great 
advantage.  During  the  weeks  of  summer  holiday,  she  spent 
whole  days  wandering  about  the  large,  grassy  tracts  by  her- 
self, rejoicing  in  the  sensation  of  freedom  from  task-work. 
If  she  were  especially  in  luck,  a  dog  would  come  and  play 
about  her,  deserting  for  a  minute  its  lawful  master  or  mistress, 
and  the  child  would  roll  upon  the  grass  in  delighted  sport. 
Or  she  would  find  out  a  warm,  shady  nook  quite  near  to  the 
borders  of  the  Zoological  Gardens,  and  would  lie  there  with 
ear  eager  to  catch  the  occasional  sounds  from  the  animals 
within.  The  roar  of  the  lion  thrilled  her  with  an  exquisite 
trembling ;  the  calls  of  the  birds  made  her  laugh  with  joy. 
Once,  three  years  ago,  her  mother  had  taken  her  to  Hastings 
for  a  week,  and  when  she  now  caught  the  cry  of  the  captive 
sea-gulls,  it  brought  back  marvellous  memories  of  the  ocean 
flasliing  in  the  sun,  of  the  music  of  breakers,  of  the  fresh 
smeU  of  the  brine. 


ANTECEDENTS  25 

Now  there  had  come  upon  her  the  first  great  grief.  She 
had  cauised  her  mother  bitter  suffering,  and  her  own  heart 
was  filled  with  a  commensurate  pain.  Had  she  been  a  little 
older  she  would  already  have  been  troubled  by  another 
anxiety  ;  for  the  last  two  years  her  mother's  health  had  been 
falling  away ;  every  now  and  then  had  come  a  fit  of  illness, 
and  at  other  times  Lotty  suffered  from  a  depression  of  spirits 
which  left  her  no  energy  to  move  about.  Ida  knew  that 
her  mother  was  often  unhappy,  but  naturally  could  not  dwell 
long  on  this  as  soon  as  each  successive  occasion  had  passed 
away.  Indeed,  in  her  heart,  she  almost  welcomed  such 
times,  since  she  was  then  allowed  to  sleep  upstairs,  one  of 
her  greatest  joys.  Lotty  was  only  too  well  aware  of  the 
physical  weakness  which  was  gaining  upon  her.  She  was 
mentally  troubled,  moreover.  Ida  was  growing  up;  there 
would  come  a  time,  and  that  very  shortly,  when  it  would  be 
necessary  either  for  them  to  part,  or  else  for  herself  to  change 
her  mode  of  life.  Indeed,  she  had  never  from  the  first  quite 
lost  sight  of  her  intentii.m  to  seek  for  an  honest  means  of 
support ;  and  of  late  years  the  consciousness  of  her  hopeless 
position  had  gro^vn  to  an  ever-recurring  trouble.  She  knew 
the  proposed  step  was  in  reality  impossible  to  her,  yet  she 
persistently  thought  and  talked  of  it.  To  Mrs.  Ledward  she 
confided  at  least  once  a  week,  generally  when  she  paid  her 
rent,  her  settled  intention  to  go  and  find  work  of  some  kind 
in  the  course  of  the  next  two  or  three  days ;  till  at  length 
this  had  become  a  standing  joke  with  the  landlady,  who 
lauy;lied  meirily  as  often  as  the  subject  was  mentioned. 
Lotty  had  of  late  let  her  thoughts  turn  to  her  father,  whom 
she  had  never  seen  since  their  parting.  Not  with  any  affec- 
tion did  she  think  of  him,  but,  in  lier  despairing  moments, 
it  seemed  to  her  impossible  that  he  should  still  refuse  aid 
if  she  appealed  to  him  for  it.  Several  times  of  late  she  had 
been  on  the  point  of  putting  her  conviction  to  the  test.  She 
had  pas.-ed  his  house  from  time  to  time,  and  knew  that  he 
still  lived  there.  Perhaps  tlie  real  reason  of  her  hesitation 
was,  not  fear  of  him,  but  a  droad,  which  she  would  not  con- 
fess to  herself,  lest  he  should  indeed  prove  obdurate,  and  so 
put  an  end  to  her  last  hope.  For  what  would  become  of 
her  and  of  Ida  if  her  health  absolutely  failed?  The  poor 
creature  shrank  from  the  thought  in  horror.  The  hope 
connected  with  her  father  grew  more  and  more  strong.  But 
it  needed  some  very  decided  crisis  to  bring  her  to  the  point 


26  THE  UNCLASSED 

of  overcoming  all  the  apprehensions  which  lay  in  the  way 
of  an  appeal  to  the  stern  old  man.  This  crisis  had  arrived 
The  illness  which  was  now  upon  her  she  felt  to  be  more 
serious  than  any  she  had  yet  suffered.  Suppose  she  were 
to  die,  and  Ida  to  be  left  alone  in  the  world  !  Even  before 
she  heard  of  tlie  child's  dismissal  from  school  she  had  all  but 
made  up  her  mind  to  write  to  her  father,  and  the  shock  of 
that  event  gave  her  the  last  impulse.  She  v/rote  a  letter  of 
pitiful  entreaty.  Would  he  help  her  to  some  means  of 
earning  a  living  for  herself  and  her  child?  She  could  not 
part  from  Ida.  Perhaps  she  had  not  long  to  live,  and  to  ask 
her  to  give  up  her  cliild  would  be  too  cruel.  Slie  would  do 
anything,  would  go  into  service,  perform  the  hardest  and 
coarsest  toil.  She  told  him  huw  Ida  had  been  brought  up, 
and  implored  his  pity  for  the  child,  who  at  all  events  was 
innocent. 

When  Ida  reached  home  from  her  visit  to  the  City,  she 
saw  her  mother  risen  and  sitting  by  the  fire.  Lotty  had 
found  the  suspense  insupportable  as  she  lay  still,  and,  though 
the  pains  in  her  chest  grew  worse  and  the  feeling  of  lassitude 
was  gaining  upon  her,  she  had  half-dressed,  and  even  tried 
to  move  about.  Just  before  the  child's  appearance,  she 
seemed  to  have  sunk  into  something  of  a  doze  on  her  chair, 
for,  as  the  door  opened,  she  started  and  looked  about  her  in 
doubt. 

"  Where  have  you  been  so  long  ? "  she  asked  impatiently. 

"I  got  back  as  quickly  as  I  could,  mother,"  said  Ida,  in 
some  surprise. 

"  Got  back  1     Is  school  over  ? " 

"From  the — the  place  you  sent  me  to,  mother." 

"What  am  I  thinking  of!"  exclaimed  Lotty,  starting  to 
consciousness.  "  Come  here,  and  tell  me.  Did  you  see — 
see  him,  Ida?     Mr.  Wood^tock,  you  know." 

"Yes,  mother,"  began  the  child,  with  pale  face,  "and  he 
— he  said  I  was  to  tell  you " 

She  burst  into  tears,  and  flew  to  her  mother's  neck. 

"  Oh,  you  won't  send  me  away  from  you,  mother  dear  1 
I  can't  go  away  from  you  !  " 

Lotty  felt  she  knew  what  this  meant.  Fear  and  trouble 
wrought  with  her  physical  weakness  to  drive  her  almost  dis- 
tracted. She  sprang  up,  caught  the  child  by  the  shoulders, 
and  shook  her  as  if  in  anger. 

"  Tell  me,  can't  you  ? "  she  cried,  straining  her  weak  voice. 


CHRISTMAS   IN  TWO  HOMES  27 

"What  did  he  sayl  Don't  be  a  little  fool!  Can't  the 
child  speak  1 " 

She  fell  back  again,  seized  with  a  cough  which  choked 
her.  Ida  stayed  her  sobbing,  and  looked  on  in  terror.  Her 
mother  motioned  constantly  to  her  to  proceed. 

"The  gentleman  said,"  Ida  continued,  with  calm  which 
was  the  result  of  extreme  self-control,  "  that  he  would  take 
me,  but  that  you  were  never  to  see  me  again." 

"Did  he  say  anything  else  about  mel"  whispered 
Lotty. 

"  No,  nothing  else." 

"  Go — go  and  tell  him  you'll  come, — you'll  leave  me." 

Ida  stood  in  anguish,  speechless  and  motionless.  All  at 
once  her  mother  seemed  to  forget  what  she  was  saying,  and 
sat  still,  staring  into  the  fire.  Several  times  she  shivered. 
Her  hands  lay  listlessly  on  her  lap;  she  breathed  with 
difficulty. 

Shortly  afterwards,  the  landlady  came  into  the  room. 
She  was  alarmed  at  Lotty's  condition.  Her  attempts  to 
arouse  the  sick  woman  to  consciousness  were  only  partly 
successful.  She  went  downstairs  again,  and  returned  with 
another  woman,  a  lodger  in  the  house.  These  two  talked 
together  in  low  tones.  The  result  of  their  colloquy  was  that 
Mrs.  Ledward  dressed  Lotty  as  well  as  she  could,  whilst  the 
other  left  the  house  and  returned  with  a  cab. 

"  We're  going  to  take  your  mother  to  the  hospital,"  said 
Mrs.  Ledward  to  the  child.  "  You  wait  here  till  we  come 
back,  there's  a  good  girl.  Now,  hold  up  a  bit,  Lotty ;  try 
and  walk  downstairs.     That's  better,  my  girl." 

Ida  was  left  alone. 


CHAPTER  IV 

CHRISTMAS  IN   TWO   HOMES 

When  Ida  Starr  was  dismissed  from  school  it  wanted  but 
a  few  days  to  the  vacations.  The  day  which  followed  her 
mother's  removal  to  the  hospital  was  Christmas  Eve.  For 
two  hours  on  the  afternoon  of  Christmas  Day,  Ida  sat  in 
silence  by  the  bedside  in  the  ward,  holding  her  mother's 
hand.     The  patient  was  not  allowed  to  speak,  seemed  indeed 


28  THE  UNCLASSED 

unable  to  do  so.  The  child  might  not  even  kiss  her.  The 
Sister  and  the  nurse  looked  pityingly  at  Ida  when  they 
passed  by,  and,  when  the  visitors'  time  was  at  an  end,  and 
she  had  to  rise  and  go,  the  Sister  put  an  orange  into  her 
hand,  and  spoke  a  few  hopeful  words. 

Night  was  setting  in  as  she  walked  homewards ;  it  was 
cold,  and  the  sky  threatened  snow.  She  had  only  gone  a 
few  yards,  when  there  came  by  a  little  girl  of  her  own 
age,  walking  with  some  one  who  looked  like  a  nurse-maid. 
They  were  passing;  but  all  at  once  the  child  sprang  to 
Ida's  side  with  a  cry  of  recognition.  It  was  little  Maud 
Enderby. 

"Where  have  you  been,  Ida?  Where  are  you  going? 
Oh,  I'm  so  glad ;  I  wanted  so  to  see  you.  Miss  Rutherford 
told  us  you'd  left  school,  and  you  weren't  coming  back  again. 
Aren't  you  really  ?    And  sha'n't  I  see  you  ? " 

"  I  don't  know,  I  think  not,"  said  Ida.  In  her  premature 
trouble  she  seemed  so  much  older  than  her  friend. 

"I  told  Miss  Rutherford  you  weren't  to  blame,"  went  on 
Maud  eagerly.  "  I  told  her  it  was  Harriet's  own  fault,  and 
how  shockingly  she'd  behaved  to  you.  I  expect  you'll  come 
back  again  after  the  holidays,  don't  you  ? " 

Ida  shook  her  head,  and  said  nothing. 

"But  I  shall  see  you  again?"  pleaded  the  little  maid. 
"You  know  we're  always  going  to  be  friends,  aren't  we? 
Who  shall  I  teU  all  my  dreams  to,  if  I  lose  you  ? " 

Dreams,  in  the  literal  sense  of  the  word.  Seldom  a  week 
went  by,  but  Maud  had  some  weird  vision  of  the  night  to 
recount  to  her  friend,  the  meaning  of  which  they  would 
together  try  to  puzzle  out ;  for  it  was  an  article  of  faith 
with  both  that  there  were  meanings  to  be  discovered,  and 
deep  ones. 

Ida  promised  that  she  would  not  allow  herself  to  be 
lost  to  her  friend,  and  they  kissed,  and  went  their  several 
ways. 

Throughout  the  day  the  door  of  Mr,  Smales's  shop  had 
been  open,  though  the  shutters  were  up.  But  at  nightfall 
it  was  closed,  and  the  family  drew  around  the  tea-table  in 
the  parlour  which  smelt  so  of  drugs.  It  was  their  only 
sitting-room,  for  as  much  of  the  house  as  could  be  was  let  to 
another  family.  Besides  !Mr.  S  males  and  his  daughter 
Harriet,  there  sat  at  the  table  a  lad  of  about  thirteen,  with 
a  dark,  handsome  face,  which  had  something  of  a  foreign 


CHRISTMAS   IN  TWO  HOMES 


29 


cast.  His  eyes  gleamed  at  all  times  with  the  light  of  a 
frank  joyousness ;  he  laughed  with  the  unrestraint  of  a 
perfectly  happy  nature.  His  countenance  was  capable,  too, 
of  a  thoughtfulness  beyond  his  years,  a  gravity  which  seemed 
to  come  of  high  thoughts  or  rich  imagination.  He  bore  no 
trace  of  resemblance  to  either  the  chemist  or  his  daughter, 
yet  was  their  relative.  Mr.  Smales  had  had  a  sister,  who  at 
an  early  age  became  a  public  singer,  and  so  far  prospered  as 
to  gain  some  little  distinction  in  two  or  three  opera  seasons. 
Whilst  thus  engaged,  she  made  the  acquaintance  of  an 
Italian,  Casti  by  name,  fell  in  love  with  him,  and  subse- 
quently followed  him  to  Italy.  Her  courage  was  rewarded, 
for  there  she  became  the  singer's  wife.  They  travelled  for 
two  years,  during  which  time  a  son  was  born  to  them.  The 
mother's  health  failed ;  she  was  unable  henceforth  to  travel 
with  her  husband,  and,  after  living  in  Rome  for  nearly  four 
years,  she  died  there.  The  boy  was  shortly  brought  back  to 
England  by  his  father,  and  placed  in  the  care  of  Mr.  Smales, 
on  the  understanding  that  a  sum  of  money  should  be  paid 
yearly  for  his  support  and  education.  From  that  day  to  the 
present  nothing  more  had  been  heard  of  Signor  Casti,  and 
all  the  care  of  his  sister's  child  had  fallen  upon  poor  Smales, 
who  was  not  too  well  provided  with  means  to  support  his 
own  small  household.  However,  he  had  not  failed  in  the 
duty,  and  Julian  (his  name  had  been  Englished)  was  still 
going  to  school  at  his  uncle's  expense.  It  was  by  this  time 
understood  that,  on  leaving  school,  he  should  come  into  the 
shop,  and  there  qualify  himself  for  the  business  of  a 
chemist. 

Had  it  not  been  for  Julian,  the  back  parlour  would  have 
seen  but  little  cheerfulness  to-night.  Mr.  Smales  himself 
was  always  depressed  in  mind  and  ailing  in  body.  Life  had 
proved  too  much  for  him  ;  the  burden  of  the  recurring  day- 
light was  beyond  his  strength.  There  was  plainly  no  lack 
of  kindliness  in  his  disposition,  and  this  never  failed  to  come 
strongly  into  his  countenance  as  often  as  he  looked  at 
Harriet.  She  was  his  only  chUd.  Her  mother  had  died  of 
consumption  early  in  their  married  life,  and  it  was  his  per- 
petual dread  lest  he  should  discover  in  Harriet  a  disposition 
to  the  same  malady. 

His  fears  had  but  too  much  stimulus  to  keep  them  alive. 
Harriet  had  passed  through  a  sickly  childhood,  and  was 
growing  up  with  a  feeble  constitution.      Body  and  mind 


3©  THE  UNCLASSED 

were  alike  unhealthy.  Of  all  the  people  who  came  in  con- 
tact with  her,  her  father  alone  was  hlind  to  her  distorted 
sense  of  right,  her  baseless  resentments,  her  malicious 
pleasures,  her  depraved  intellect.  His  affection  she  re- 
paid with  indifference.  At  present,  the  only  person  she 
appeared  to  really  like  was  the  servant  Sarah,  a  girl  of 
vicious  character. 

Harriet  had  suffered  more  from  Ida's  blow  than  had  at 
first  appeared  likely.  The  wound  would  not  heal  well,  and 
she  had  had  several  feverish  nights.  For  her  convenience, 
the  couch  had  been  drawn  up  between  the  fire  and  the  table, 
and,  reclining  here,  she  every  now  and  then  threw  out  a 
petulant  word  in  reply  to  her  father's  or  Julian's  well-meant 
cheerfulness.  But  for  the  boy,  the  gloomy  silence  would 
seldom  have  been  broken.  He,  however,  was  full  to-night  of 
a  favourite  subject,  and  kept  up  a  steady  flow  of  bright 
narrative.  At  school  he  was  much  engaged  just  now  with 
the  history  of  Rome,  and  it  was  his  greatest  delight  to 
tell  the  listeners  at  home  the  glorious  stories  which  were 
his  latest  acquisitions.  All  to-day  he  had  been  reading 
Plutarch.  The  enthusiasm  with  which  he  spoke  of  these 
old  heroes  and  their  deeds  went  beyond  mere  boyish 
admiration  of  valour  and  delight  in  bloodshed ;  he  seemed 
to  be  strongly  sensible  of  the  real  features  of  greatness  in 
these  men's  lives,  and  invested  his  stories  with  a  glow  of 
poetical  colour  which  found  little  appreciation  in  either  of 
his  hearers. 

"And  I  was  born  in  Rome,  wasn't  I,  uncle?"  he  ex- 
claimed at  last.     " / am  a  Roman ;  Romanus  sum/" 

Then  he  laughed  with  his  wonted  bright  gleefulness.  It 
was  half  in  jest,  but  for  all  that  there  was  a  genuine  warmth 
on  his  cheek,  and  lustre  in  his  fine  eyes. 

"  Some  day  I  will  go  to  Rome  again,"  he  said,  "  and  both 
of  you  shall  go  vrith  me.  We  shall  see  the  Forum  and  the 
Capitol!  Sha'n't  you  shout  when  you  see  the  Capitol, 
uncle  r' 

Poor  Smales  only  smiled  sadly  and  shook  his  head. 
It  was  a  long  way  from  Marylebone  to  Rome;  greater 
still  the  distance  between  the  boy's  mind  and  that  of  his 
uncle. 

Sarah  took  Harriet  to  bed  early.  Julian  had  got  hold  of 
his  Plutarch  again,  and  read  snatches  of  it  aloud  every  now 
and  then.    His  uncle  paid  no  heed,  was  sunk  in  dull  reverie. 


CHRISTMAS   IN  TWO  HOMES  31 

When  they  had  sat  thus  for  more  than  an  hour,  Mr.  Smales 
began  to  exhibit  a  wish  to  talk. 

"  Put  the  book  away,  and  draw  up  to  the  fire,  my  boy," 
he  said,  with  as  near  an  approach  to  heartiness  as  he  was 
capable  of.  "It's  Christmas  time,  and  Christmas  only 
comes  once  a  year." 

He  rubbed  his  palms  together,  then  began  to  twist  the 
corners  of  his  handkerchief. 

"  Well,  Julian,"  he  went  on,  leaning  feebly  forward  to 
the  fire,  "  a  year  more  school,  I  suppose,  and  then — business ; 
what?" 

"Yes,  uncle." 

The  boy  spoke  cheerfully,  but  yet  not  in  the  same  natural 
way  as  before. 

"I  wish  I  could  afford  to  make  you  something  better, 
my  lad;  you  ought  to  be  something  better  by  riglits. 
And  I  don't  well  know  what  you'll  find  to  do  in  this 
little  shop.  The  business  might  be  better;  yes,  might  be 
better.  You  won't  have  much  practice  in  dispensing, 
I'm  afraid,  unless  things  improve.  It  is  mostly  hair-oil, 
— and  the  patent  medicines.  It's  a  poor  look-out  for  you, 
Julian." 

There  was  a  silence. 

"  Harriet  isn't  quite  well  yet,  is  she  ? "  Smales  went  on, 
half  to  himself. 

"  No,  she  looked  poorly  to-night." 

"Julian,"  began  the  other,  but  paused,  rubbing  his  hands 
more  nervously  than  ever. 

"  Yes,  uncle  t " 

"I  wonder  what  'ud  become  of  her  if  I — if  I  died 
now  t  You're  growing  up,  and  you're  a  clever  lad ;  you'll 
soon  be  able  to  shift  for  yourself.  But  what'll  Harriet 
do?  If  only  she  had  her  health.  And  I  shall  have 
nothing  to  leave  either  her  or  you,  Julian, — nothing, 
— nothing  !  She'll  have  to  get  her  living  somehow.  I 
must  think  of  some  easy  business  for  her,  I  must.  She 
might  be  a  teacher,  but  her  head  isn't  strong  enough,  I 
fear.     Julian " 

"Yes,  uncle?" 

"You — you  are  old  enough  to  understand  things,  my 
boy,"  went  on  his  uncle,  with  quavering  voice.  "  Suppose, 
after  I'm  dead  and  gone,  Harriet  should  want  help.  She 
won't   make   many   friends,   I   fear,    and   she'U  have   bad 


32  THE  UNCLASSED 

health.  Suppose  she  was  in  want  of  any  kind, — you'd 
stand  by  her,  Julian,  wouldn't  you?  You'd  be  a  friend 
to  her, — always  1 " 

"  Indeed  I  would,  uncle  ! "  exclaimed  the  boy  stoutly. 

"  You  promise  me  that,  Julian,  this  Christmas  night  ? — 
you  promise  it  1 " 

"  Yes,  I  promise,  uncle.  You've  always  been  kind  and 
good  to  me,  and  see  if  I'm  not  the  same  to  Harriet." 

His  voice  trembled  with  generous  emotion. 

"  No,  I  sha'n't  see  it,  my  boy,"  said  Smales,  shaking  his 
head  drearily  ;  "  but  the  promise  will  be  a  comfort  to  me  at 
the  end,  a  comfort  to  me.     You're  a  good  lad,  Julian  1 " 

Silence  came  upon  them  again. 

In  the  same  district,  in  one  of  a  row  of  semi-detached 
houses  standing  in  gardens,  lived  Ida's  little  friend,  Maud 
Enderby,  with  her  aunt,  Miss  Bygrave,  a  lady  of  forty-two  or 
forty-three.  The  rooms  were  small  and  dark ;  the  furniture 
sparse,  old-fashioned,  and  much  worn ;  there  were  no  orna- 
ments in  any  of  the  rooms,  with  the  exception  of  a  few 
pictures  representing  the  saddest  incidents  in  the  life  of 
Christ.  On  entering  the  front  door  you  were  oppressed  by 
the  chill,  damp  atmosphere,  and  by  a  certain  unnatural  still- 
ness. The  stairs  were  not  carpeted,  but  stained  a  dark 
colour  ;  a  footfall  upon  them,  however  light,  echoed  strangely 
as  if  from  empty  chambers  above.  There  was  no  sign  of 
lack  of  repair ;  perfect  order  and  cleanliness  wherever  the 
eye  penetrated ;  yet  the  general  effect  was  an  unspeakable 
desolation. 

Maud  Enderby,  on  reaching  home  after  her  meeting  with 
Ida,  entered  the  front  parlour,  and  sat  down  in  silence  near 
the  window,  where  faint  daylight  yet  glimmered.  The 
room  was  without  fire.  Over  the  mantelpiece  hung  an 
engraving  of  the  Crucifixion ;  on  the  opposite  wall  were 
the  Agony  in  the  Garden,  and  an  Entombment;  all  after 
old  masters.  The  centre  table,  a  few  chairs,  and  a  small 
sideboard  Avere  the  sole  articles  of  furniture.  The  table 
was  spread  with  a  white  cloth ;  upon  it  were  a  loaf 
of  bread,  a  pitcher  containing  milk,  two  plates,  and  two 
glasses. 

Maud  sat  in  the  cold  room  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour ;  it 
became  quite  dark.  Then  was  heard  a  soft  footstep  descend- 
ing the  stairs ;  the  door  opened,  and  a  lady  came  in,  bearing 


CHRISTMAS  IN  TWO  HOMES  33 

a  lighted  lamp,  which  she  stood  upon  the  table.  She  was 
tall,  very  slender,  and  with  a  face  which  a  painter  might 
have  used  to  personify  the  spiritual  life.  Its  outlines  were 
of  severe  perfection ;  its  expression  a  confirmed  grief,  subdued 
by,  and  made  subordinate  to,  the  consciousness  of  an  inward 
strength  which  could  convert  suffering  into  triumph.  Her 
garment  was  black,  of  the  simplest  possible  design.  In  look- 
ing at  Maud,  as  the  child  rose  from  the  chair,  it  was  scarcely 
affection  that  her  eyes  expressed,  rather  a  grave  compassion. 
Maud  took  a  seat  at  the  table  without  speaking ;  her  aunt 
sat  down  over  against  her.  In  perfect  silence  they  partook 
of  the  milk  and  the  bread.  Miss  Bygrave  then  cleared  the 
table  with  her  own  hands,  and  took  the  things  out  of  the 
room.  Maud  stUl  kept  her  place.  The  child's  manner  was 
not  at  all  constrained ;  she  was  evidently  behaving  in  her 
wonted  way.  Her  eyes  wandered  about  the  room  with 
rather  a  dreamy  gaze,  and,  as  often  as  they  fell  upon  her 
aunt's  face,  became  very  serious,  though  in  no  degree  ex- 
pressive of  fear  or  even  awe. 

Miss  Bygrave  returned,  and  seated  herself  near  the  little 
girl;  then  remained  thoughtful  for  some  minutes.  The 
breath  from  their  lips  was  plainly  visible  on  the  air.  Maud 
almost  shivered  now  and  then,  but  forced  herself  to  suppress 
the  impulse.  Her  aunt  presently  broke  the  silence,  speaking 
in  a  low  voice,  which  had  nothing  of  tenderness,  but  was 
most  impressive  in  its  earnest  calm. 

"  I  wish  to  speak  to  you  before  you  go  upstairs,  Maud ;  to 
speak  of  things  which  you  cannot  understand  fully  as  yet, 
but  which  you  are  old  enough  to  begin  to  think  about." 

Maud  was  surprised.  It  was  the  first  time  that  her  aunt 
had  ever  addressed  her  in  this  serious  way.  She  was  used 
to  being  all  but  ignored,  though  never  in  a  manner  which 
made  her  feel  that  she  was  treated  imkindly.  There  was 
nothing  like  confidence  between  them  ;  only  in  care  for  her 
bodily  wants  did  Miss  Bygrave  fill  the  place  of  the  mother 
whose  affection  the  child  had  never  known.  Maud  crossed 
her  hands  on  her  lap,  and  looked  up  with  respectful  atten- 
tion upon  her  pale  sweet  little  face. 

"  Do  you  wonder  at  all,"  Miss  Bygrave  went  on,  "  why 
we  never  spend  Christmas  like  your  friends  do  in  their 
homes,  with  eating  and  drinking  and  all  sorts  of  merri- 
ment?" 

«  Yes,  aunt,  I  do." 


34 


THE  UNCLASSED 


It  was  evidently  the  truth,  and  given  with  the  simple 
directness  which  characterised  the  child. 

"  You  know  what  Christmas  Day  means,  Maud?" 

*'  It  is  the  day  on  which  Christ  was  born." 

"And  for  what  purpose  did  Christ  come  as  a  child  on 
earth?" 

Maud  thought  for  a  moment.  She  had  never  had  any 
direct  religious  teaching ;  all  she  knew  of  these  matters  was 
gathered  from  her  regular  attendance  at  church.  She  re- 
plied in  a  phrase  which  had  rested  in  her  mind,  though 
probably  conveying  little  if  any  meaning  to  her. 

"  He  came  to  make  lis  free  from  sin." 

"  And  so  we  should  rejoice  at  His  coming.  But  would  it 
please  Him,  do  you  think,  to  see  us  showing  our  joy  by 
indulging  in  those  very  sins  from  which  He  came  to  free 
us?" 

Maud  looked  with  puzzled  countenance. 

"  Is  it  a  sin  to  like  cake  and  sweet  things,  aunt  1 " 

The  gravity  of  the  question  brought  a  smile  to  Miss 
Bygrave's  close,  strong  lips. 

"  Listen,  Maud,"  she  said,  "  and  I  will  tell  you  what  I 
mean.  For  you  to  like  such  things  is  no  sin,  as  long  as  you 
are  still  too  young  to  have  it  explained  to  you  why  you 
should  overcome  that  liking.  As  I  said,  you  are  now  old 
enough  to  begin  to  think  of  more  than  a  child's  foolishness, 
to  ask  yourself  what  is  the  meaning  of  the  life  which  has 
been  given  you,  what  duties  you  must  set  before  yourself  as 
you  grow  up  to  be  a  woman.  When  once  these  duties  have 
become  clear  to  you,  when  you  understand  what  the  end  of 
life  is,  and  how  you  should  seek  to  gain  it,  then  many  things 
become  sinful  which  were  not  so  before,  and  many  duties 
must  be  performed  which  previously  you  were  not  ready 
for." 

Miss  Bygrave  spoke  with  effort,  as  if  she  found  it  difficult 
to  express  herself  in  sufficiently  simple  phraseology.  Speak- 
ing, she  did  not  look  at  the  child;  and,  when  the  pause 
came,  her  eyes  were  stiU  fixed  absently  on  the  picture  above 
the  mantelpiece. 

"Keep  in  mind  what  I  shall  tell  you,"  she  proceeded 
with  growing  solemnity,  "and  some  day  you  will  better 
understand  its  meaning  than  you  can  now.  The  sin  which 
Christ  came  to  free  us  from  was — fondness  for  the  world, 
enjoyment  of  what  we  caU  pleasure,  desire  for  happiness  on 


CHRISTMAS  IN  TWO  HOMES  35 

earth.  He  Himself  came  to  set  us  the  example  of  one  to 
■whom  the  world  was  nothing,  who  could  put  aside  every 
joy,  and  make  His  life  a  life  of  sorrows.  Even  that  was 
not  enough.  When  the  time  had  come,  and  He  had  finished 
His  teaching  of  the  disciples  whom  He  chose.  He  willingly 
underwent  the  most  cruel  of  all  deaths,  to  prove  that  His 
teaching  had  heen  the  truth,  and  to  show  us  that  we  must 
face  any  most  dreadful  suffering  rather  than  desert  what  we 
believe  to  be  right." 

She  pointed  to  the  crucified  figure,  and  Maud  followed 
the  direction  of  her  hand  with  awed  gaze. 

"And  this,"  said  Miss  Bygrave,  "is  why  I  think  it  wrong 
to  make  Christmas  a  time  of  merriment.  In  the  true  Chris- 
tian, every  enjoyment  which  comes  from  the  body  is  a  sin. 
If  you  feel  you  like  this  or  that,  it  is  a  sign  that  you  must 
renounce  it,  give  it  up.  If  you  feel  fond  of  life,  you  must 
force  yourself  to  hate  it ;  for  life  is  sin.  Life  is  given  to  us 
that  we  may  conquer  ourselves.  We  are  placed  in  the  midst 
of  sin  that  we  may  struggle  against  its  temptations.  There 
is  temptation  in  the  very  breath  you  draw,  since  you  feel  a 
dread  if  it  is  checked.  You  must  live  so  as  to  be  ready  at 
any  moment  to  give  up  your  life  with  gladness,  as  a  burden 
which  it  has  been  appointed  you  to  bear  for  a  time.  There 
is  temptation  in  the  love  you  feel  for  those  around  you ;  it 
makes  you  cling  to  life ;  you  are  tempted  to  grieve  if  you 
lose  them,  whereas  death  is  the  greatest  blessing  in  the  gift 
of  God.  And  just  because  it  is  so,  we  must  not  snatch  at  it 
before  our  time ;  it  would  be  a  sin  to  kill  ourselves,  since 
that  would  be  to  escape  from  the  tasks  set  us.  Many  plea- 
sures would  seem  to  be  innocent,  but  even  these  it  is  better 
to  renounce,  since  for  that  purpose  does  every  pleasure  exist. 
I  speak  of  the  pleasures  of  the  world.  One  joy  there  is 
which  we  may  and  must  pursue,  the  joy  of  sacrifice.  The 
znore  the  body  suffers,  the  greater  should  be  the  delight  of 
the  soul ;  and  the  only  moment  of  perfect  happiness  should 
be  that  when  the  world  grows  dark  around  us,  and  we  feel 
the  hand  of  death  upon  our  hearts." 

She  was  silent,  and  both  sat  in  the  cold  room  without 
word  or  motion. 


36  THE  UNCLASSED 

CHAPTER  V 

POSSIBILITIES 

Christmas  passed,  and  the  beginning  of  the  IsTew  Year  drew 
nigh.  And,  one  morning,  as  Mr.  Woodstock  was  glancing 
up  and  down  the  pages  of  a  ledger,  a  telegram  was  delivered 
to  him.  It  was  from  a  hospital  in  the  north-west  of  London. 
"Your  daughter  is  dying,  and  wishes  to  see  you.  Please 
come  at  once." 

Lotty's  ailment  had  declared  itself  as  pneumonia.  She 
was  frequently  delirious,  and  the  substance  of  her  talk  at 
such  times  led  the  attendant  Sister  to  ask  her,  when  reason 
returned,  whether  she  did  not  wish  any  relative  to  be  sent 
for.  Lotty  was  frightened,  but,  as  long  as  she  was  told 
that  there  was  still  hope  of  recovery,  declined  to  mention 
any  name.  The  stubborn  independence  which  had  sup- 
ported her  through  these  long  years  asserted  itself  again,  as  a 
reaction  after  her  fruitless  appeal ;  at  moments  she  felt  that 
she  could  die  with  her  lips  closed,  and  let  what  might  happen 
to  her  child.  But  when  she  at  length  read  upon  the  faces 
of  those  about  her  that  her  fate  hung  in  the  balance,  and 
when  she  saw  the  face  of  little  Ida,  come  there  she  knew 
not  how,  looking  upon  her  from  the  bedside,  then  her  pur- 
pose yielded,  and  in  a  whisper  she  told  her  father's  address, 
and  begged  that  he  might  be  apprised  of  her  state, 

Abraham  Woodstock  arrived  at  the  hospital,  but  to  no 
purpose.  Lotty  had  lost  her  consciousness.  He  waited  for 
some  hours ;  there  was  no  return  of  sensibility.  When  it 
had  been  long  dark,  and  he  had  withdrawn  from  the  ward 
for  a  little,  he  was  all  at  once  hastily  summoned  back.  He 
stood  by  the  bedside,  his  hands  behind  his  back,  his  face 
set  in  a  hard  gaze  upon  the  pale  features  on  the  pillow. 
Opposite  to  him  stood  the  medical  man,  and  a  screen  placed 
around  the  bed  shut  them  off  from  the  rest  of  the  ward. 
All  at  once  Lotty's  eyes  opened.  It  seemed  as  though  she 
recognised  her  father,  for  a  look  of  surprise  came  to  her 
countenance.  Then  there  was  a  gasping  for  breath,  a  struggle, 
and  the  eyes  saw  no  more,  for  all  their  staring. 

Mr.  Woodstock  left  the  hospital.     At  the  first  public- 


POSSIBILITIES 


37 


house  he  reached  he  entered  and  drank  a  glass  of  whisky. 
The  barman  had  forgotten  the  piece  of  lemon,  and  was  re- 
warded with  an  oath  considerably  stronger  than  the  occasion 
seemed  to  warrant.  Arrived  at  certain  cross- ways,  Mr. 
Woodstock  paused.  His  eyes  were  turned  downwards ;  he 
did  not  seem  dubious  of  his  way,  so  much  as  in  hesitation 
as  to  a  choice  of  directions.  He  took  a  few  steps  hither, 
then  back ;  began  to  wend  thither,  and  again  turned. 
When  he  at  length  decided,  his  road  brought  him  to  Milton 
Street,  and  up  to  the  door  on  which  stood  the  name  of 
Mrs.  Led  ward. 

He  knocked  loudly,  and  the  landlady  herself  opened. 

"  A  Mrs.  Starr  lived  here,  I  believe  ? "  he  asked. 

"  She  does  Hve  here,  sir,  but  she's  in  the  orspital  at  pre- 
sent, I'm  sorry  to  say." 

"  Is  her  child  at  home  ? " 

"She  is,  sir." 

"  Let  me  see  her,  will  you  1    In  some  room,  if  you  please." 

Mrs.  Ledward's  squinting  eyes  took  shrewd  stock  of  this 
gentleman,  and,  with  much  politeness,  she  showed  him  into 
her  own  parlour.  Then  she  summoned  Ida  from  upstairs, 
and,  the  door  being  closed  upon  the  two,  she  held  her  ear  as 
closely  as  possible  to  the  keyhole. 

Ida  recognised  her  visitor  with  a  start,  and  drew  back  a 
little.  There  were  both  fear  and  dislike  in  her  face,  fear 
perhaps  predominating. 

"  You  remember  coming  to  see  me,"  said  Mr.  Woodstock, 
looking  down  upon  the  child,  and  a  trifle  askance. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  was  Ida's  reply. 

"  I  have  just  been  at  the  hospital.     Your  mother  is  dead." 

His  voice  gave  way  a  little  between  the  first  and  the  last 
letter  of  the  last  word.  Perhaps  the  sound  was  more  to  his 
ear  than  the  thought  had  been  to  his  mind.  Perhaps,  also, 
he  felt  when  it  was  too  late  that  he  ought  to  have  made 
this  announcement  with  something  more  of  preparation. 
Ida's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  his  face,  and  seemed  expanding 
as  they  gazed ;  her  lips  had  parted ;  she  was  the  image  of 
sudden  dread.  He  tried  to  look  away  from  her,  but  some- 
how could  not.  Then  two  great  tears  dropped  upon  her 
cheeks,  and  her  mouth  began  to  quiver.  She  i)ut  her  hands 
up  to  her  face,  and  sobbed  as  a  grown  woman  might  have 
done. 

Mr.  Woodstock  turned  away  for  a  minute,  and  fingered 


38  THE  UNCLASSED 

a  china  ornament  on  the  mantelpiece.  He  heard  the  sobs 
forcibly  checked,  and,  when  there  was  silence,  again  faced 
his  grandchild. 

"  You'll  be  left  all  alone  now,  you  see,"  he  said,  his  voice 
less  hard.  "I  was  a  friend  of  your  mother's,  and  I'll  do 
what  I  can  for  you.  You'd  better  come  with  me  to  my 
house." 

Ida  looked  at  him  in  surprise,  tempered  with  indignation. 

"  If  you  were  a  friend  of  mother's,"  she  said,  "  why  did 
you  want  to  take  me  away  from  her  and  never  let  her  see 
me  again  1 " 

"Well,  you've  nothing  to  do  with  that,"  said  Abraham 
roughly.     "  Go  and  put  your  things  on,  and  come  with  me." 

"  No,"  replied  Ida  firmly.  "  I  don't  want  to  go  with 
you." 

"What  you  want  has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  You  will 
do  as  I  tell  you." 

Abraham  felt  strangely  in  this  interview.  It  was  as 
though  time  were  repeating  itself,  and  he  was  once  more  at 
issue  with  his  daughter's  childish  wilfulness. 

Ida  did  not  move. 

"  Why  won't  you  come  ? "  asked  Mr.  Woodstock  sharply. 

"  I  don't  want  to,"  was  Ida's  answer. 

"  Look  here,  then,"  said  the  other,  after  a  brief  considera- 
tion. "  You  have  the  choice,  and  you're  old  enough  to  see 
what  it  means.  You  can  either  come  with  me  and  be  well 
cared  for,  or  stay  here  and  shift  as  best  you  can ;  now,  be 
sharp  and  make  up  your  mind." 

"  I  don't  wish  to  go  with  you,  I'll  stay  here  and  do  my 
best." 

"Very  well." 

Mr.  Woodstock  whistled  a  bar  of  an  air,  stepped  from  the 
room,  and  thence  out  into  the  streets. 

It  was  not  his  intention  really  to  go  at  once.  Irritation 
had  made  it  impossible  for  him  to  speak  longer  with  the 
child ;  he  would  walk  the  length  of  the  street  and  return  to 
give  her  one  more  chance.  Distracted  in  purpose  as  he  had 
never  been  in  his  life  before,  he  reached  Marylebone  Road ; 
rain  was  just  beginning  to  fall,  and  he  had  no  umbrella  with 
him.  He  stood  and  looked  back.  Ida  once  out  of  his  sight, 
that  impatient  tenderness  which  her  face  inspired  failed  be- 
fore the  recollection  of  her  stubbornness.  She  had  matched 
her  will  with  his,  as  bad  an  omen  as  well  could  be.     What 


AN  ADVERTISEMENT  39 

was  the  child  to  him,  or  he  to  her  1  He  did  not  feel  capable 
of  trying  to  make  her  like  him ;  what  good  in  renewing  the 
old  conflicts  and  upsetting  the  position  of  freedom  he  had 
attained  ?  Doubtless  she  inherited  a  fatal  disposition.  In 
his  mind  lurked  the  foreknowledge  that  he  might  come  to 
be  fond  of  this  little  outcast,  but  Woodstock  was  incapable 
as  yet  of  understanding  that  love  must  and  will  be  its  own 
reward.  The  rain  fell  heavier,  and  at  this  moment  an 
omnibus  came  up.  He  hailed  it,  saying  to  himself  that  he 
would  think  the  matter  over  and  come  back  on  the  morrow. 
The  first  part  of  his  purpose  he  fulfilled ;  but  to  Milton  Street 
he  never  returned. 

As  soon  as  he  had  left  the  house,  Mrs.  Ledward  boimced 
into  the  room  where  Ida  stood. 

'*  You  little  idjot ! "  she  exclaimed.  "  What  do  you  mean 
by  refusing  a  ofi"er  like  that ! — Why,  the  gentleman's  your 
own  father." 

"  My  father ! "  repeated  Ida,  in  scornful  astonishment. 
"My  father  died  when  I  was  a  baby.  Mother's  told  me 
so  often." 

"If  you  believe  all  your  mother  told  you, — Well,  well, 
you  have  been  a  little  wooden -head.  What  made  you 
behave  like  that  to  him  1 — Where  does  he  live,  eh  ? " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"You  do  know.  Why,  I  heard  him  say  you'd  been  to 
see  him.  And  what  are  you  going  to  do,  I'd  like  to  know  1 
You  dont  expect  me  to  keep  you,  I  s'pose.  Tell  me  at  once 
where  the  gentleman  lives,  and  let  me  take  you  there.  The 
idea  of  your  turning  against  your  own  father  ! " 

"  He's  not  my  father  ! "  cried  Ida  passionately.  "  My 
father  is  dead ;  and  now  mother's  dead,  and  I'm  alone." 

She  turned  and  went  from  the  room,  weeping  bitterly. 


CHAPTER  VI 

AN    ADVERTISEMENT 

In  a  morning  newspaper  of  March  187 — ,  that  is  to  say, 
some  eight  years  after  the  events  narrated  in  the  preceding 
chapter,  appeared  a  singular  advertisement. 

"  Wanted,  human  companionsliip.     A  young  man  of  four- 


40  THE  UNCLASSED 

and-twenty  wishes  to  find  a  congenial  associate  of  about  his 
own  age.  He  is  a  student  of  ancient  and  modern  literatures, 
a  free-thinker  in  religion,  a  lover  of  art  in  all  its  forms,  a 
hater  of  conventionalism.  "Would  like  to  correspond  in  the 
first  instance.     Address  0.  W.,  City  News  Rooms,  W.C." 

An  advertisement  which,  naturally,  might  mean  much  or 
little,  might  be  the  outcome  of  an  idle  whim,  or  the  despairing 
cry  of  a  hungry  heart.  It  could  not  be  expected  to  elicit 
many  replies ;  and  brought  indeed  but  one. 

Behind  the  counter  of  a  chemist's  shop  in  Oxford  Street 
there  served,  day  after  day,  a  young  assistant  much  observed 
of  female  customers.  The  young  man  was  handsome,  and 
not  with  that  vxilgar  handsomeness  which  is  fairly  common 
among  the  better  kind  of  shop-walkers  and  counter-keepers. 
He  had  rather  long  black  hair,  which  arranged  itself  in 
silky  ripples  about  a  face  of  perfectly  clear,  though  rather 
dark,  complexion.  When  he  smiled,  as  he  frequently  did, 
the  effect  was  very  pleasant.  He  spoke,  too,  with  that 
musical  intonation  which  is  always  more  or  less  suggestive 
of  musical  thought.  He  did  not  seem  by  any  means  ideally 
adapted  to  the  place  he  occupied  here,  yet  filled  it  without 
suspicion  of  constraint  or  uneasiness :  there  was  nothing  in 
him  to  make  one  suppose  that  he  had  ever  been  accustomed 
to  a  better  sphere  of  life. 

He  lived  in  the  house  above  the  shop,  and  had  done  so 
for  about  two  years ;  previously  he  had  held  a  like  position 
in  a  more  modest  establishment.  His  bed-room,  which  had 
to  serve  him  as  sitting-room  also  during  his  free  hours,  gave 
indications  of  a  taste  not  ordinarily  found  in  chemists' 
assistants.  On  the  walls  were  several  engravings  of  views 
in  Rome,  ancient  and  modern;  and  there  were  two  book- 
cases filled  with  literature  which  had  evidently  known  the 
second-hand  stall, — most  of  the  Latin  poets,  a  few  Italian 
books,  and  some  English  classics.  Not  a  trace  anywhere 
of  the  habits  and  predilections  not  unfairly  associated  with 
the  youth  of  the  shop,  not  even  a  pipe  or  a  cigar-holder. 
It  was  while  sitting  alone  here  one  evening,  half  musing, 
half  engaged  in  glancing  over  the  advertisements  in  a  paper 
two  days  old,  that  the  assistant  had  been  attracted  by  the 
insertion  just  quoted.  He  read  and  re-read  it,  became  more 
thoughtful,  sighed  slightly.  Then  he  moved  to  the  table 
and  took  some  note-paper  out  of  a  writing-case.  Still  he 
seemed  to  be  in  doubt,  hesitated  in  pressing  a  pen  against 


AN  ADVERTISEMENT  41 

his  thumb-nail,  was  on  the  point  of  putting  the  note-paper 
away  again.  Ultimately,  however,  he  sat  down  to  write. 
He  covered  four  pages  with  a  letter,  which  he  then  pro- 
ceeded deliberately  to  correct  and  alter,  till  he  had  cut  it 
down  by  about  half.  Then  came  another  period  of  doubt 
before  he  decided  to  make  a  fair  copy.  But  it  was  finally 
made,  and  the  signature  at  the  foot  was :  Julian  Casti. 

He  went  out  at  once  to  the  post. 

Two  days  later  he  received  a  reply,  somewhat  longer  than 
his  own  epistle.  The  writer  was  clearly  keeping  himself  in 
a  tentative  attitude.  Still,  he  wrote  something  about  his 
own  position  and  his  needs.  He  was  a  teacher  in  a  school 
in  South  London,  Hving  in  lodgings,  with  his  evenings  mostly 
unoccupied.  His  habits,  he  declared,  were  Bohemian.  Sup- 
pose, by  way  of  testing  each  other's  dispositions,  they  were 
to  interchange  views  on  some  book  with  which  both  were 
likely  to  be  acquainted  :  say,  Keats's  poems  ?  In  conclusion, 
the  "  0.  W."  of  the  advertisement  signed  himself  Osmond 
Waymark. 

The  result  was  that,  a  week  after,  Casti  received  an  invi- 
tation to  call  on  Waymark,  at  the  latter's  lodgings  in  Walcot 
Square,  Kennington.  He  arrived  on  a  Saturday  evening, 
just  after  eight  o'clock.  The  house  he  sought  proved  to  be 
one  of  very  modest  appearance ;  small,  apparently  not  too 
clean,  generally  uninviting.  But  a  decent-looking  woman 
opened  the  door,  and  said  that  Mr.  Waymark  would  be  found 
in  response  to  a  knock  at  the  first-floor  front.  The  visitor 
made  his  way  up  the  dark,  narrow  stair-case,  and  knocked 
as  bidden.     A  firm  voice  summoned  him  to  enter. 

From  a  seat  by  a  table  which  was  placed  as  near  as  possible 
to  a  very  large  fire  rose  a  young  man  whose  age  might  have 
been  either  twenty-three  or  twenty-six.  Most  people  would 
have  inclined  to  give  him  the  latter  figure.  He  was  rather 
above  the  average  stature,  and  showed  well-hung  limbs,  with 
a  habit  of  holding  himself  which  suggested  considerable 
toughness  of  sinews ;  he  moved  gracefully,  and  with  head 
well  held  up.  His  attire  spoke  sedentary  habits;  would 
have  been  decidedly  shabby,  but  for  its  evident  adaptation 
to  easy-chair  and  fireside.  The  pure  linen  and  general  tone 
of  cleanliness  were  reassuring ;  the  hand,  too,  which  he  ex- 
tended, was  soft,  delicate,  and  finely  formed.  The  head  was 
striking,  strongly  individual,  set  solidly  on  a  rather  long  and 
shapely  neck ;  a  fine  forehead,  irregular  nose,  rather  pro- 


42  THE  UNCLASSED 

minent  jaw-bones,  lips  just  a  little  sensual,  but  speaking 
good-humour  and  intellectual  character.  A  heavy  mous- 
tache ;  no  beard.  Eyes  dark,  keen,  very  capable  of  tender- 
ness, but  perhaps  more  often  shrewdly  discerning  or  cynically 
speculative.  One  felt  that  the  present  expression  of  genial 
friendliness  was  unfamiliar  to  the  face,  though  it  by  no 
means  failed  in  pleasantness.  The  lips  had  the  look  of  being 
frequently  gnawed  in  intense  thought  or  strong  feeling.  In 
the  cheeks  no  healthy  colour,  but  an  extreme  sallowness  on 
aU  the  features.  Smiling,  he  showed  imperfect  teeth.  Al- 
together, a  young  man  upon  whom  one  felt  it  diflScult  to 
pronounce  in  the  earlier  stages  of  acquaintance ;  whose  in- 
timacy but  few  men  would  exert  themselves  to  seek ;  who 
in  aU  likelihood  was  chary  of  exhibiting  his  true  self  save 
when  secure  of  being  understood. 

Julian  Casti  was  timid  with  strangers  ;  his  eyes  fell  before 
the  other's  look,  and  he  shook  hands  without  speaking.  The 
contrast  in  mere  appearance  between  the  two  was  very  pro- 
nounced; both  seemed  in  some  degree  to  be  aware  of  it. 
Waymark  seemed  more  rugged  than  in  ordinary  companion- 
ship ;  the  slightly  effeminate  beauty  of  Casti,  and  his  diffi- 
dent, shyly  graceful  manners,  were  more  noticeable  than 
usual.  Waymark  inspected  his  visitor  closely  and  directly ; 
the  latter  only  ventured  upon  one  or  two  quick  side 
glances.  Yet  the  results  were,  on  the  whole,  mutually 
satisfactory. 

Julian's  eyes  glistened  at  the  sight  of  two  goodly  book- 
cases, reaching  from  floor  to  ceiling.  There  were,  too,  pictures 
of  other  than  the  lodging-house  type  ;  engraved  heads  of  the 
great  in  art  and  science,  and  a  few  reproductions  in  pencil 
or  chalk  of  known  subjects,  perchance  their  possessor's  own 
work.  On  the  table  lay  traces  of  literary  occupation,  sheets 
of  manuscript,  open  books,  and  the  like.  On  another  table 
stood  a  tray,  with  cups  and  saucers.  A  kettle  was  boiling 
on  the  fire. 

Waymark  helped  the  conversation  by  oflFering  a  cup  of 
cofi'ee,  which  he  himself  made. 

"  You  smoke,  I  hope  t "  he  asked,  reaching  some  cigars 
from  the  mantelpiece. 

Julian  shook  his  head,  with  a  smile. 

"  No  ?  How  on  earth  do  you  support  existence  1 — At  all 
events,  you  don't,  as  the  railway-carriage  phrase  has  it,  object 
to  smoking?" 


.A,- 


'  Vou  smoke,  I  hope?"— yUj,<.  v- 


AN  ADVERTISEMENT 


43 


"  Not  at  all.  I  like  the  scent,  but  was  never  tempted  to 
go  further." 

Way  mark  filled  his  pipe,  and  made  himself  comfortable 
in  a  low  cane-bottom  chair,  which  had  stood  folded-up  against 
the  wall.  Talk  began  to  range  over  very  various  topics, 
Waymark  leading  the  way,  his  visitor  only  gradually  ventur- 
ing to  take  the  initiative.  Theatres  were  mentioned,  but 
Julian  knew  little  of  them ;  recent  books,  but  with  these  he 
had  small  acquaintance ;  politics,  but  in  these  he  had  clearly 
no  interest. 

"  That's  a  point  of  contact,  at  all  events,"  exclaimed  Way- 
mark.  "  I  detest  the  very  name  of  Parliament,  and  could 
as  soon  read  Todhunter  on  Conic  Sections  as  the  reports  of 
a  debate.  Perhaps  you're  a  mathematician  ? "  This  with  a 
smile. 

"  By  no  means,"  was  the  reply.  "  In  fact,"  Casti  went 
on,  "  I'm  afraid  you  begin  to  think  my  interests  are  very 
narrow  indeed.  My  opportunities  have  been  small.  I  left 
a  very  ordinary  school  at  fourteen,  and  what  knowledge  1 
have  since  got  has  come  from  my  own  efforts.  I  am  sure 
the  profit  from  our  intercourse  would  be  entirely  on  my  side. 
I  have  the  wish  to  go  in  for  many  things,  however," 

"Oh,"  broke  in  the  other,  "don't  suppose  that  I  am  a 
scholar  in  any  sense  of  the  word,  or  a  man  of  more  than 
average  culture.  My  own  regular  education  came  to  an  end 
pretty  much  at  the  same  age,  and  only  a  certain  stubborn- 
ness has  forced  me  into  an  intellectual  life,  if  you  can  call  it 
so.  Not  much  intellect  required  in  my  every-day  business, 
at  aU  events.  The  school  in  which  I  teach  is  a  fair  type  of 
the  middle-class  commercial  '  academy ; '  the  headmaster  a 
nincompoop  and  charlatan,  my  fellow- assistants  poor  crea- 
tures, who  must  live,  I  suppose, — though  one  doesn't  well 
understand  why.  I  had  always  a  liking  for  Greek  and  Latin 
and  can  make  shift  to  read  both  in  a  way  satisfactory  to  my- 
self, though  I  dare  say  it  wouldn't  go  for  much  with  college 
examiners.  Then,  as  for  my  scribbling,  well,  it  has  scarcely 
yet  passed  the  amateur  stage.  It  will  some  day;  simply 
because  I've  made  up  my  mind  that  it  shall ;  but  as  yet  I 
haven't  got  beyond  a  couple  of  weak  articles  in  weak  maga- 
zines, and  I  don't  exactly  feel  sure  of  my  way.  I  rather 
think  we  shall  approach  most  nearly  in  our  taste  for  poetry. 
I  liked  much  what  you  had  to  say  about  Keats.  It  decided 
me  that  we  ought  to  go  on." 


44  THE  UNCLASSED 

Julian  looked  up  with  a  bright  smile. 

"  What  did  you  think  at  first  of  my  advertisement,  eh  ? " 
cried  "Waymark,  with  a  sudden  burst  of  loud  laughter. 
"  Queer  idea,  wasn't  it  ? " 

"  It  came  upon  me  curiously.  It  was  so  like  a  frequent 
thought  of  my  own  actually  carried  out." 

"  It  was  t  You  have  felt  that  same  desperate  need  of  con- 
genial society  ? " 

"  I  have  felt  it  very  strongly  indeed.  I  live  so  very  much 
alone,  and  have  always  done  so.  Fortunately  I  am  of  a  very 
cheerful  disposition,  or  I  might  have  suffered  much.  The 
young  fellows  I  see  every  day  haven't  much  intellect,  it 
must  be  confessed.  I  used  to  try  to  get  them  under  the 
influence  of  my  own  enthusiasms,  but  they  didn't  seem  to 
understand  me.  They  care  only  for  things  which  either  repel 
me,  or  are  utterly  without  interest." 

**  Ha  !  you  understand  what  that  means  !  "  "Waymark  had 
risen  from  his  low  chair,  and  stood  with  his  back  to  the  fire. 
His  eyes  had  a  new  life,  and  he  spoke  in  a  strong,  emphatic 
way  which  suited  well  with  his  countenance.  "  You  know 
what  it  is  to  have  to  do  exclusively  with  fools  and  brutes, 
to  rave  under  the  vile  restraints  of  Philistine  surroundings  1 
Then  you  can  form  some  notion  of  the  state  I  was  in  when 
I  took  the  step  of  writing  that  advertisement ;  I  was,  I  firmly 
believe,  on  the  verge  of  lunacy !  For  two  or  three  days  I 
had  come  back  home  from  the  school  only  to  pace  up  and 
down  the  room  in  an  indescribable  condition.  I  get  often 
like  that,  but  this  time  things  seemed  reaching  a  head. 
Why,  I  positively  cried  with  misery,  absurd  as  it  may 
sound.  My  blood  seemed  too  hot,  seemed  to  be  swelling 
out  the  veins  beyond  endurance.  As  a  rule  I  get  over  these 
moods  by  furious  walking  about  the  streets  half  through  the 
night,  but  I  couldn't  even  do  that.  I  had  no  money  to  go 
in  for  dissipation  :  that  often  helps  me.  Every  book  was 
loathsome  to  me.  My  landlady  must  have  overheard  some- 
thing, for  she  came  in  and  began  a  conversation  about  God 
knows  what ;  I  fear  I  mortally  offended  her ;  I  could  have 
pitched  the  poor  old  woman  out  of  the  window !  Heavens, 
how  did  I  get  through  those  nights  1 " 

"And  the  fit  has  passed?"  inquired  Julian  when  the 
other  ceased. 

"  The  Lord  be  praised ;  yes  !  "  Waymark  laughed  half- 
Bcomfully.     "  There  came  an  editor's  note,  accepting  a  thing 


AN  ADVERTISEMENT  45 

that  had  been  going  from  magazine  to  magazine  for  three 
months.  This  snatched  me  up  into  furious  spirits.  I  rushed 
out  to  a  theatre,  drank  more  than  was  good  for  me,  made  a 
fool  of  myself  in  general, — and  then  received  your  letter. 
Good  luck  never  comes  singly." 

Julian  had  watched  the  strange  workings  of  Waymark's 
face  with  close  interest.  When  the  latter  suddenly  turned 
his  eyes,  as  if  to  see  the  effect  of  all  his  frankness,  Casti 
coloured  slightly  and  looked  away,  but  with  a  look  of 
friendly  sympathy. 

"  Do  I  shock  you  ? "  asked  the  other.  "  Do  you  think  me 
rather  too  much  of  an  animal,  for  all  my  spiritual  longings  1 " 

"Certainly  not,  I  can  well  understand  you,  I  believe." 

The  conversation  passed  to  quieter  things.  Julian  seemed 
afraid  of  saying  too  much  about  his  own  experiences,  but 
found  opportunities  of  showing  his  acquaintance  with  Eng- 
lish poetry,  which  was  quite  as  extensive  as  that  of  his  new 
friend,  excepting  in  the  case  of  a  few  writers  of  the  day, 
whom  he  had  not  been  able  to  procure.  He  had  taught  him- 
self Italian,  too,  and  had  read  considerably  in  that  language. 
He  explained  that  his  father  was  an  Italian,  but  had  died 
when  he  himself  was  stiU  an  infant. 

"  You  have  been  in  Italy?"  asked  Waymark,  with  interest. 

A  strange  look  came  over  Julian's  features,  a  look  at  once 
bright  and  melancholy ;  his  fine  eyes  gleamed  as  was  their 
wont  eight  years  ago,  in  the  back-parlour  in  Boston  Street, 
when  he  was  telling  tales  from  Plutarch. 

"!N"ot,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice  charged  with  feeling, 
"since  I  was  three  years  old. — You  will  think  it  strange, 
but  I  don't  so  much  long  for  the  modern  Italy,  for  the 
beautiful  scenery  and  climate,  not  even  for  the  Italy  of 
Raphael,  or  of  Dante,  I  think  most  of  classical  Italy.  I 
am  no  scholar,  but  I  love  the  Latin  writers,  and  can  forget 
myself  for  hours,  working  through  Livy  or  Tacitus.  I  want 
to  see  the  ruins  of  Rome;  I  want  to  see  the  Tiber,  the 
Clitumnus,  the  Aufidus,  the  Alban  Hills,  Lake  Trasimenus, 
— a  thousand  places  !  It  is  strange  how  those  old  times 
have  taken  hold  upon  me.  The  mere  names  in  Roman 
history  make  my  blood  warm. — And  there  is  so  little  chance 
that  I  shall  ever  be  able  to  go  there ;  so  little  chance." 

"Waymark  had  watched  the  glowing  face  with  some 
surprise. 

"Why,  this  is  famous!"  he  exclaimed.     "We  shall  suit 


46  THE  UNCLASSED 

each  other  splendidly.  Who  knows?  We  may  see  Italy 
together,  and  look  back  upon  these  times  of  miserable 
struggle.     By  the  by,  have  you  ever  written  verses  ? " 

Julian  reddened,  like  a  girL 

"  I  have  tried  to,"  he  saidL 

"And  do  still?" 

"  Sometimes." 

"  I  thought  as  much.  Some  day  you  shall  let  me  hear 
til  em ;  won't  you?  And  I  will  read  you  some  of  my  own. 
But  mine  are  in  the  savage  vein,  a  mere  railing  against  tlie 
universe,  altogether  too  furious  to  be  anything  like  poetry ; 
I  know  that  well  enough,  I  have  long  since  made  up  my 
mind  to  stick  to  prose ;  it  is  the  true  medium  for  a  polemical 
egotist.  I  want  to  find  some  new  form  of  satire ;  I  feel 
capabilities  that  way  which  shall  by  no  means  rust  unused. 
It  has  pleased  Heaven  to  give  me  a  splenetic  disposition, 
and  some  day  or  other  I  shall  find  the  tongue." 

It  was  midnight  before  Julian  rose  to  leave,  and  he  was 
surprised  when  he  discovered  how  time  had  flown.  Way- 
mark  insisted  on  his  guest's  having  some  supper  before 
setting  out  on  his  walk  home  ;  he  brought  out  of  a  cupboard 
a  tin  of  Australian  mutton,  which,  with  bread  and  pickles, 
afforded  a  very  tolerable  meal  after  four  hours'  talk.  They 
then  left  the  house  together,  and  Waymark  accompanied  his 
friend  as  far  as  Westminster  Bridge. 

•'  It's  too  bad  to  have  brought  you  so  far  at  this  hour," 
said  Julian,  as  they  parted. 

"Oh,  it  is  my  hour  for  walking,"  was  the  reply.  "London 
streets  at  night  are  my  element.  Depend  upon  it,  Rome 
was  poor  in  comparison  ! " 

He  went  off  laughing  and  waving  his  hand. 


CHAPTEK  VII 

BETWEEN   OLD  AND   NEW 

Julian  Cash's  uncle  had  been  three  years  dead.  It  was 
well  for  him  that  he  lived  no  longer ;  his  business  had  con- 
tinued to  dwindle,  and  the  last  months  of  the  poor  man's 
life  were  embittered  by  the  prospect  of  inevitable  bank- 
ruptcy.    He  died  of  an  overdose  of  some  opiate,  which  the 


BETWEEN  OLD  AND  NEW  47 

anguish  of  sleeplessness  brought  him  into  the  habit  of  taking. 
Suicide  it  might  have  been,  yet  that  was  scarcely  probable  j 
he  was  too  anxious  on  his  daughter's  account  to  abandon 
her  in  this  way,  for  certainly  his  death  could  be  nothing  to 
her  profit.  Julian  was  then  already  eighteen,  and  quickly 
succeeded  in  getting  a  situation.  Harriet  Smales  left  London, 
and  went  to  live  with  her  sole  relative,  except  Julian,  an 
aunt  who  kept  a  stationer's  shop  in  Colchester.  She  was 
taught  the  business,  and  assisted  her  aunt  for  more  than 
two  years,  when,  growing  tired  of  the  life  of  a  country  town, 
she  returned  to  London,  and  succeeded  in  getting  a  place  at 
a  stationer's  in  Gray's  Inn  Road.  This  was  six  months  ago. 
Having  thus  established  herself,  she  wrote  to  Julian,  and 
told  him  where  she  was. 

Julian  never  forgot  the  promise  he  had  made  to  his  uncle 
that  Christmas  night,  eight  years  ago,  when  he  was  a  lad  of 
thirteen.  Harriet  he  had  always  regarded  as  his  sister,  and 
never  yet  had  he  failed  in  brotherly  duty  to  her.  When 
the  girl  left  Colchester,  she  was  on  rather  bad  terms  with 
her  aunt,  and  the  latter  wrote  to  Julian,  saying  that  she 
knew  nothing  of  Harriet's  object  in  going  to  London,  but 
that  it  was  certainly  advisable  that  some  friend  should  be 
at  hand,  if  possible,  to  give  her  advice ;  though  advice  (she 
went  on  to  say)  was  seldom  acceptable  to  Harriet.  This 
letter  alarmed  Julian,  as  it  was  the  first  he  had  heard  of  his 
cousin's  new  step ;  the  letter  from  herself  at  the  end  of  a 
week's  time  greatly  relieved  him,  and  he  went  off  as  soon  as 
possible  to  see  her.  He  found  her  living  in  the  house  where 
she  was  engaged,  apparently  with  decent  people,  and  moder- 
ately contented ;  more  than  this  could  never  be  said  of  the 
girl.  Since  then,  he  had  seen  her  at  least  once  every  Aveek. 
Sometimes  he  visited  her  at  the  shop ;  when  the  weather 
was  fine,  they  spent  the  Sunday  afternoon  in  walking  to- 
gether. Harriet's  health  seemed  to  have  improved  since  her 
return  to  town.  Previously,  as  in  her  childhood,  she  had 
always  been  more  or  less  ailing.  From  both  father  and 
mother  she  had  inherited  an  unhealthy  body ;  there  was  a 
scrofulous  tendency  in  her  constitution,  and  the  slightest 
casual  ill-health,  a  cold  or  any  trifling  accident,  always 
threatened  her  with  serious  results.  She  was  of  mind  cor- 
responding to  her  body;  restless,  self-willed,  discontented, 
sour-tempered,  querulous.  She  certainly  used  no  special 
pains  to  hide   these  faults  from  Julian,  perhaps  was  not 


48  THE  UNCLASSED 

herself  sufficiently  conscious  of  them,  hut  the  young  man 
did  not  seem  to  be  repelled  by  her  imperfections ;  he  in- 
variably treated  her  with  gentle  forbearance,  pitied  her 
sufferings,  did  many  a  graceful  little  kindness  in  hope  of 
pleasing  her. 

The  first  interview  between  Julian  and  Waymark  was 
followed  by  a  second  a  few  days  after,  when  it  was  agreed 
that  they  should  spend  each  Sunday  evening  together  in 
Kennington;  Julian  had  no  room  in  which  he  could  well 
receive  visitors.  The  next  Sunday  proved  fine;  Julian 
planned  to  take  Harriet  for  a  walk  in  the  afternoon,  then, 
after  accompanying  her  home,  to  proceed  to  Walcot  Square. 
As  was  usual  on  these  occasions,  he  was  to  meet  his  cousin 
at  the  Holborn  end  of  Gray's  Inn  Eoad,  and,  as  also  was 
the  rule,  Harriet  came  some  twenty  minutes  late.  Julian 
was  scrupulously  punctual,  and  waiting  irritated  him  not  a 
little,  but  he  never  allowed  himself  to  show  his  annoyance. 
There  was  always  the  same  kind  smile  on  his  handteome 
face,  and  the  pressure  of  his  hand  was  warm. 

Harriet  Smales  was  about  a  year  younger  than  her  cousin. 
Her  dress  showed  moderately  good  taste,  with  the  usual 
fault  of  a  desire  to  imitate  an  elegance  which  she  could  not 
in  reality  afford.  She  wore  a  black  jacket,  fur-trimmed, 
over  a  light  grey  dress ;  her  black  straw  hat  had  a  few 
flowers  in  front.  Her  figure  was  good  and  her  movements 
graceful ;  she  was  nearly  as  tall  as  Julian.  Her  face,  how- 
ever, could  not  be  called  attractive ;  it  was  hollow  and  of  a 
sickly  hue,  even  the  lips  scarcely  red.  Grey  eyes,  beneath 
which  were  dark  circles,  looked  about  with  a  quick,  sus- 
picious glance ;  the  eye-brows  made  almost  a  straight  line. 
The  nose  was  of  a  coarse  type,  the  lips  heavy  and  indicative 
of  iU-temper.  The  disagreeable  effect  of  these  lineaments 
was  heightened  by  a  long  scar  over  her  right  temple ;  she 
evidently  did  her  best  to  conceal  it  by  letting  her  hair  come 
forward  very  much  on  each  side,  an  arrangement  in  itself 
unsuited  to  her  countenance. 

"I  think  I'm  going  to  leave  my  place,"  was  her  first 
remark  to-day,  as  they  turned  to  walk  westward.  She 
spoke  in  a  dogged  way  with  which  Julian  was  familiar 
enough,  holding  her  eyes  down,  and,  as  she  walked,  swing- 
ing her  arms  impatiently. 

"  I  hope  not,"  said  her  cousin,  looking  at  her  anxiously 
"  What  has  happened?" 


BETWEEN  OLD  AND  NEW  49 

"Oh,  I  don't  know;  it's  always  the  same;  people  treat 
you  as  if  you  was  so  much  dirt.  I  haven't  been  accustomed 
to  it,  and  I  don't  see  why  I  should  begin  now.  I  can  soon 
enough  get  a  new  shop." 

"  Has  Mrs.  Ogle  been  unkind  to  you  1 " 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,  and  I  don't  much  care.  You're 
expected  to  slave  just  the  same,  day  after  day,  whether 
you're  feeling  well  or  not." 

This  indirect  and  querulous  mode  of  making  known  her 
grievances  was  characteristic  of  the  girl  Julian  bore  with 
it  very  patiently. 

"Haven't  you  been  feeling  well?"  he  asked,  with  the 
same  kindness. 

"Well,  no,  I  haven't.  My  head  fairly  splits  now,  and 
this  sun  isn't  likely  to  make  it  any  better." 

"  Let  us  cross  to  the  shady  side." 

"'Twon't  make  any  difference;  I  can't  run  to  get  out  of 
the  way  of  horses." 

Julian  was  silent  for  a  little. 

"  WTiy  didn't  you  write  to  me  in  the  week  ? "  she  asked 
presently.  "I'm  sure  it  would  be  a  relief  to  hear  from 
somebody  sometimes.  It's  like  a  year  from  one  Sunday  to 
another." 

"Did  I  promise  to  write?  I  really  didn't  remember 
having  done  so;  I'm  very  sorry.  I  might  have  told  you 
about  a  new  friend  I've  got." 

Harriet  looked  sharply  into  his  face.  Julian  had  made 
no  mention  of  Waymark  on  the  preceding  Sunday ;  it  had 
been  a  rainy  day,  and  they  had  only  spent  a  few  minutes 
together  in  the  parlour  which  Mrs.  Ogle,  the  keeper  of  the 
shop,  allowed  them  to  use  on  these  occasions. 

"What  sort  of  a  friend?"  the  girl  inquired  rather  sourly. 

"A  very  pleasant  fellow,  rather  older  than  myself;  I 
made  his  acquaintance  by  chance." 

Julian  avoided  reference  to  the  real  circumstances.  He 
knew  well  the  difficulty  of  making  Harriet  understand 
them. 

"  We  are  going  to  see  each  other  every  Sunday,"  he  went 
on. 

"Then  I  suppose  you'll  give  up  coming  for  me?" 

"  Oh  no,  not  at  alL  I  shall  see  him  at  night  always, 
after  I  have  left  you." 

"  Where  does  he  live  ? " 

D 


so  THE  UNCLASSED 

"Rather  far  off;  in  Kennington." 

"What  is  he?" 

"  A  teacher  in  a  school.  I  hope  to  get  good  from  being 
with  him ;  we're  going  to  read  together,  and  so  on.  I  wish 
you  could  find  some  pleasant  companion  of  the  same  kind, 
Harriet ;  you  wouldn't  feel  so  lonely." 

"  I  dare  say  I'm  better  off  without  anybody.  I  shouldn't 
suit  them.  It's  very  few  people  I  do  suit,  or  else  people 
don't  suit  me,  one  or  the  other.  What's  his  name,  your 
new  friend's  ? " 

"  Waymark." 

"And  he  lives  in  Kennington?     Whereabouts?" 

"  In  Walcot  Square.  I  don't  think  you  know  that  part, 
do  you?" 

"What  number?" 

Julian  looked  at  her  with  some  surprise.  He  found  her 
eyes  fixed  with  penetrating  observation  upon  his  face.  He 
mentioned  the  number,  and  she  evidently  made  a  mental 
note  of  it.     She  was  silent  for  some  minutes. 

"  I  suppose  you'll  go  out  at  nights  with  him  1 "  was  her 
next  remark. 

"It  is  scarcely  likely.     Where  should  we  go  to?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,  and  I  don't  suppose  it  matters  much, 
to  me." 

"You  seem  vexed  at  this,  Harriet.  I'm  very  sorry. 
Really,  it's  the  first  friend  I've  ever  had.  I've  often  felt 
the  need  of  some  such  companionship." 

"  I'm  nobody  ? "  she  said,  with  a  laugh,  the  first  to-day. 

Julian's  face  registered  very  perfectly  the  many  subtle 
phases  of  thought  and  emotion  which  succeeded  each  other 
in  his  mind.  "This  last  remark  distressed  him  for  a  moment; 
he  could  not  bear  to  hurt  another's  feelings. 

"Of  course  I  meant  male  friend,"  he  said  quickly. 
"  You  are  my  sister." 

"  Ko,  I'm  not,"  was  the  reply ;  and,  as  she  spoke,  Harriet 
glanced  sideways  at  him  in  a  particularly  unpleasant  manner. 
She  herself  meant  it  to  be  pleasant. 

"Oh  yes,  you  are,  Harriet,"  he  insisted  good-humouredly. 
"  We've  been  brother  and  sister  ever  since  we  can  remember, 
haven't  we?" 

"  But  we  aren't  really,  for  all  that,"  said  the  girl,  looking 
away.  "  Well,  now  you've  got  somebody  else  to  take  you 
up,  I  know  very  well  I  shall  see  less  of  you.     You'll  be 


BETWEEN   OLD  AND  NEW  51 

making  excuses  to  get  out  of  the  rides  when  the  summer 
comes  again." 

"  Pray  don't  say  or  think  anything  of  the  kind,  Harriet," 
urged  Julian  with  feeling.  "  I  should  not  think  of  letting 
anything  put  a  stop  to  our  picnics.  It  will  soon  be  getting 
warm  enough  to  think  of  the  river,  won't  it^  And  then,  if 
you  would  like  it,  there  is  no  reason  why  my  friend  shouldn't 
come  with  us,  sometimes." 

"  Oh,  nonsense  !  Why,  you'd  be  ashamed  to  let  him 
know  me." 

"  Ashamed  !  How  can  you  possibly  think  so  ?  But  you 
don't  mean  it ;  you  are  joking." 

"  I'm  sure  I'm  not.  I  should  make  mistakes  in  talking, 
and  all  sorts  of  things.  You  don't  think  much  of  me,  as  it 
is,  and  that  Avould  make  you  like  me  worse  still." 

She  tossed  her  head  nervously,  and  swung  her  arms  with 
the  awkward  restlessness  which  always  denoted  some  strong 
feeling  in  her. 

"Come,  Harriet,  this  is  too  bad,"  Julian  exclaimed, 
smiling.  "  Why,  I  shall  have  to  quarrel  with  you,  to  prove 
that  we're  good  friends." 

"  I  wish  you  would  quarrel  with  me  sometimes,"  said  the 
girl,  laughing  in  a  forced  way.  "  You  take  all  my  bad-temper 
always  just  in  the  same  quiet  way.  I'd  far  rather  you  fell 
out  with  me.  It's  treating  me  too  like  a  child,  as  if  it  didn't 
matter  how  I  went  on,  and  I  wasn't  anything  to  you." 

Of  late,  Harriet  had  been  getting  much  into  the  habit  of 
this  ambiguous  kind  of  remark  when  in  her  cousin's  company. 
Julian  noticed  it,  and  it  made  him  a  trifle  uneasy.  He  attri- 
buted it,  however,  to  the  girl's  strangely  irritable  disposition, 
and  never  failed  to  meet  such  outbreaks  with,  increased 
warmth  and  kindness  of  tone.  To-day,  Harriet's  vagaries 
seemed  to  affect  him  somewhat  unusually.  He  became 
silent  at  times,  and  then  tried  to  laugh  away  the  unpleasant- 
ness, but  the  laughter  was  not  exactly  spontaneous.  At 
length  he  brought  back  the  conversation  to  the  point  from 
which  it  had  started,  and  asked  if  she  had  any  serious 
intention  of  leaving  Mrs.  Ogle. 

"  I'm  tired  of  being  ordered  about  by  people ! "  Harriet 
exclaimed.  "I  know  I  sha'n't  put  up  with  it  much  longer. 
I  only  wish  I'd  a  few  pounds  to  start  a  shop  for  myself." 

"  I  heartily  wish  1  had  the  money  to  give  you,"  was 
Julian's  reply. 


5« 


THE  UNCLASSED 


"  Don't  you  save  anything  at  all  1 "  asked  his  cousin,  with 
aflfected  indifference. 

*'  A  little  ;  very  little.  At  all  events,  I  think  we  shall  be 
able  to  have  our  week  at  the  seaside  when  the  time  comes. 
Have  you  thought  where  you'd  like  to  go  to  1 " 

"  No ;  I  haven't  thought  anything  about  it.  What  time 
shall  you  get  back  home  to-night  1 " 

"  Rather  late,  I  dare  say.  We  sit  talking  and  forget  the 
time.     It  may  be  after  twelve  o'clock." 

Harriet  became  silent  again.  They  reached  Hyde  Park, 
and  joined  the  crowds  of  people  going  in  all  directions  about 
the  walks.  Harriet  had  always  a  number  of  ill-natured 
comments  to  make  on  the  dress  and  general  appearance  of 
people  they  passed.  Julian  smiled,  but  with  no  genuine 
pleasure.  As  always,  he  did  his  best  to  lead  the  girl's 
thoughts  away  from  their  incessant  object,  herself. 

They  Avere  back  again  at  the  end  of  Gray's  Inn  Road  by 
half-past  four. 

"Well,  I  won't  keep  you,"  said  Harriet,  with  the  sour 
smile.  "  I  know  you're  in  a  hurry  to  be  off.  Are  you 
going  to  walk  'i " 

"  Yes ;  I  can  do  it  in  about  an  hour." 

The  girl  turned  away  without  further  leave-taking,  and 
Julian  walked  southwards  with  a  troubled  face. 

Waymark  expected  him  to  tea.  At  this,  their  third 
meeting,  the  two  were  already  on  very  easy  terms.  Way- 
mark  did  the  greater  share  of  the  talking,  for  Julian  was 
naturally  of  fewer  words;  from  the  beginning  it  was  clear 
that  the  elder  of  the  friends  would  have  the  initiative  in 
most  things.  Waymark  unconsciously  displayed  something 
of  that  egoism  which  is  inseparable  from  force  of  character, 
and  to  the  other  this  was  far  from  disagreeable;  Julian 
liked  the  novel  sensation  of  having  a  strong  nature  to  rely 
upon.  Already  he  was  being  led  by  his  natural  tendency  to 
hero-worship  into  a  fervid  admiration  for  his  friend. 

"  Wliat  have  you  been  doing  with  yourself  this  fine  day  ? " 
Waymark  asked,  as  they  sat  down  to  table. 

"I  always  spend  Sunday  afternoon  with  a  cousin  of 
mine,"  replied  Julian,  with  the  unhesitating  frankness  which 
was  natural  to  him. 

"Male  or  female?" 

"  Female."  There  was  a  touch  of  colour  on  his  face  as  he 
met  the  other's  eye,  and  he  continued  rather  quickly.    "  We 


BETWEEN  OLD  AND  NEW  53 

lived  together  always  as  children,  and  were  only  separated 
at"  my  xmcle's  death,  three  years  ago.  She  is  engaged  at  a 
stationer's  shop." 

"  What  is  a  fellow  to  do  to  get  money  1 "  Waymark  ex- 
claimed, when  his  pipe  was  well  alight.  "  I'm  growing  sick 
of  this  hand-to-mouth  existence.  Now  if  one  had  a  bare 
competency,  what  glorious  possibilities  would  open  out. 
The  vulgar  saying  has  it  that  '  time  is  money ; '  like  most 
vulgar  sayings  putting  the  thing  just  the  wrong  way  about. 
'  Money  is  time,'  I  prefer  to  say ;  it  means  leisure,  and  all 
that  follows.  Why  don't  you  ^vrite  a  poem  on  Money, 
Casti  %  I  almost  feel  capable  of  it  myself.  What  can  claim 
precedence,  in  all  this  world,  over  hard  cash?  It  is  the 
fruitful  soil  wherein  is  nourished  the  root  of  the  tree  of  life ; 
it  is  the  vivifying  principle  of  human  activity.  Upon  it 
luxuriate  art,  letters,  science;  rob  them  of  its  sustenance, 
and  they  droop  like  withering  leaves.  Money  means  virtue ; 
the  lack  of  it  is  vice.  The  devil  loves  no  lurking-place  like 
an  empty  purse.  Give  me  a  thousand  pounds  to-morrow, 
and  I  become  the  most  virtuous  man  in  England.  I  satisfy 
all  my  instincts  freely,  openly,  with  no  petty  makeshifts  and 
vile  hypocrisies.  To  scorn  and  revile  wealth  is  the  mere 
resource  of  splenetic  poverty.  What  cannot  be  purchased 
with  coin  of  the  realm?  First  and  foremost,  freedom.  The 
moneyed  man  is  the  sole  king ;  the  herds  of  the  penniless 
are  but  as  slaves  before  his  footstool.  He  breathes  with  a 
sense  of  proprietorship  in  the  whole  globe-enveloping  atmo- 
sphere j  for  is  it  not  in  his  power  to  inhale  it  wheresoever 
he  pleases  ?  He  puts  his  hand  in  his  pocket,  and  bids  with 
security  for  every  joy  of  body  and  mind;  even  death  he 
faces  with  the  comforting  consciousness  that  his  defeat  AviU 
only  coincide  with  that  of  human  science.  He  buys  culture, 
he  buys  peace  of  mind,  he  buys  love. — You  think  not?  I 
don't  use  the  word  cynically,  but  in  very  virtuous  earnest. 
Make  me  a  millionaire,  and  I  will  purchase  the  passionate 
devotion  of  any  free-hearted  woman  the  world  contains  ! " 

Waymark's  pipe  had  gone  out ;  he  re-lit  it,  with  the  half- 
mocking  smile  which  always  followed  upon  any  more 
vehement  utterance. 

"  That  I  am  poor,"  he  went  on  presently,  "  is  the  result 
of  my  own  pigheadedness.  My  father  was  a  stock-broker, 
in  anything  but  flourishing  circumstances.  He  went  in  for 
some  cursed  foreign  loan  or  other, — I  know  nothing  of  such 


54  THE  UNCLASSED 

things, — and  ruined  himself  completely.  He  had  to  take  a 
subordinate  position,  and  died  in  it.  I  was  about  seventeen 
then,  and  found  myself  alone  in  the  world.  A  friend  of  my 
father's,  also  a  city  man,  Woodstock  by  name,  was  left  my 
guardian.  He  wanted  me  to  begin  a  business  career,  and, 
like  a  fool,  I  wouldn't  hear  of  it.  Mr.  Woodstock  and  I 
quarrelled ;  he  showed  himself  worthy  of  his  name,  and  told 
me  plainly  that,  if  I  didn't  choose  to  take  his  advice.  I  must 
shift  for  myself.  That  I  professed  myself  perfectly  ready  to 
do  ;  I  was  bent  on  an  intellectual  life,  forsooth ;  couldn't  see 
that  the  natural  order  of  things  was  to  make  money  first  and 
be  intellectual  afterwards.  So,  lad  as  I  was,  I  got  a  place 
as  a  teacher,  and  that's  been  my  business  ever  since." 

Waymark  threw  himself  back  and  laughted  carelessly. 
He  strummed  a  little  with  his  fingers  on  the  arm  of  the 
chair,  and  resumed : 

"  I  interested  myself  in  religion  and  philosophy  ;  I  became 
an  aggressive  disciple  of  free-thought,  as  it  is  called.  Ra- 
dicalism of  every  kind  broke  out  in  me,  like  an  ailment.  I 
bought  cheap  free-thought  literature  ;  to  one  or  two  papers 
of  the  kind  I  even  contributed.  I  keep  these  efi"usions 
carefully  locked  up,  for  salutary  self-humiliation  at  some 
future  day,  when  I  shall  have  grown  conceited.  Nay,  I 
went  further.  I  delivered  lectures  at  working-men's  clubs, 
lectures  with  violent  titles.  One,  I  remember,  was  called 
'The  Gospel  of  Rationalism.'  And  I  was  enthusiastic  in 
the  cause,  with  an  enthusiasm  such  as  I  shall  never  ex- 
perience again.  Can  I  imagine  myself  writing  and  speaking 
such  things  now-a-daysl  Scarcely  :  yet  the  spirit  remains, 
it  is  only  the  manifestations  which  have  changed.  1  am  by 
nature  combative ;  I  feel  the  need  of  attacking  the  cherished 
prejudices  of  society ;  I  have  a  joy  in  outraging  what  are 
called  the  proprieties.  And  I  wait  for  my  opportunity, 
which  has  yet  to  come." 

"How  commonplace  my  life  has  been,  in  comparison," 
said  Julian,  after  an  interval  of  thoughtfulness. 

"  Your  nature,  I  believe,  is  very  pure,  and  therefore  very 
happy.  /  am  what  Browning  somewhere  calls  a  '  beast  with 
a  speckled  hide,'  and  happiness,  I  take  it,  I  shall  never 
know." 

Julian  could  begin  to  see  that  his  friend  took  sometliing 
of  a  pleasure  in  showing  and  dwelling  upon  the  worst  side 
of  his  own  character. 


ACADEMICAL  55 

"  You  will  be  happy,"  he  said,  "  w hen  you  once  find  your 
true  work,  and  feel  that  you  are  doing  it  well." 

"But  the  motives,  the  motives ! — Never  mind,  I've 
talked  enough  of  myself  for  one  sitting.  Don't  think  I've 
told  you  everything.  Plenty  more  confessions  to  come, 
when  time  and  place  shall  serve.  Little  by  little  you  will 
get  to  know  me,  and  by  then  will  most  likely  have  had 
enough  of  me." 

"  That  is  not  at  all  likely ;  rather  the  opposite." 

When  they  left  the  house  together,  shortly  after  eleven, 
Julian's  eye  fell  upon  the  dark  figure  of  a  girl,  standing  by 
a  gas-lamp  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  way.  The  figure  held 
his  gaze.  Waymark  moved  on,  and  he  had  to  follow,  but 
still  looked  back.  The  girl  had  a  veil  half  down  upon  her 
face ;  she  was  gazing  after  the  two.  She  moved,  and  the 
resemblance  to  Harriet  was  so  striking  that  Julian  again 
stopped.  As  he  did  so,  the  figure  turned  away,  and  walked 
in  the  opposite  direction,  till  it  was  lost  in  the  darkness. 

Julian  went  on,  and  for  a  time  waa  very  silent. 


CHAPTEK  VIII 

ACADEMICAL 

The  school  in  which  Osmond  Waymark  taught  was  situated 
in  "a  pleasant  suburb  of  southern  London"  (Brixton,  to 
wit) ;  had  its  "  spacious  playground  and  gymnasium "  (the 
former  a  tolerable  back-yard,  the  latter  a  disused  coach- 
house) ;  and,  as  to  educational  features,  offered,  at  the 
choice  of  parents  and  guardians,  either  the  solid  foundation 
desirable  for  those  youths  predestined  to  a  commercial 
career,  or  the  more  liberal  training  adapted  to  minds  of  a 
professional  bias.  Anything  further  in  the  way  of  informa- 
tion was  to  be  obtained  by  applying  to  the  headmaster,  Dr 
Tootle. 

At  present  the  number  of  resident  pupils  was  something 
under  forty.  The  marvel  was  how  so  many  could  le  accom- 
modated in  so  small  a  house.  Two  fair-sized  bedrooms,  and 
a  garret  in  which  the  servants  could  not  be  persuaded  to 
sleep,  served  as  dormitories  for  the  whole  school;  the 
younger  children  sleeping  two  together. 


56  THE  UNCLASSED 

"Waymark  did  not  reside  on  the  premises.  For  a  stipu. 
lated  sum  of  thirteen  pounds  per  quarter  he  taught  daily 
from  nine  till  five,  with  au  interval  of  an  hour  and  a  half 
at  dinner-time,  when  he  walked  home  to  Walcot  Square  for 
such  meal  as  the  state  of  his  exchequer  would  allow.  Way- 
mark  occupied  a  prominent  place  in  Dr.  Tootle's  prospectus. 
As  Osmond  Waymark,  B.A., — the  degree  was  a  bond  fide 
one,  of  London  University, — he  filled  the  position  of  Senior 
Classical  Master;  anonymously  he  figured  as  a  teach-er  of 
drawing  and  lecturer  on  experimental  chemistry.  The  other 
two  masters,  resident,  were  Mr.  O'Gree  and  Hdrr  Egger ; 
the  former,  teacher  of  mathematics,  assistant  classical 
master,  and  professor  of  gymnastics ;  the  latter,  teacher  of 
foreign  languages,  of  music,  and  of  dancing.  Dr.  Tootle 
took  upon  himself  the  English  branches,  and,  of  course,  the 
arduous  duty  of  general  superintendence.  He  was  a  very 
tall,  thin,  cadaverous,  bald-headed  man.  Somehow  or  other 
he  had  the  reputation  of  having,  at  an  earlier  stage  in  his 
career,  grievously  over-exerted  his  brain  in  literary  labour ; 
parents  were  found,  on  the  whole,  ready  to  accept  this  fact 
as  an  incontestable  proof  of  the  doctor's  fitness  to  fill  his 
present  office,  though  it  resulted  in  entire  weeks  of  retreat 
from  the  school-room  under  the  excuse  of  fearful  headaches. 
The  only  known  product  of  the  literary  toil  which  had  had 
such  sad  results  was  a  very  small  English  Grammar,  of 
course  used  in  the  school,  and  always  referred  to  by  the 
doctor  as  "  my  little  compendium." 

Now  and  then,  Waymark  sought  refuge  from  the  loneli- 
ness of  his  room  in  a  visit  to  his  colleagues  at  the  Academy. 
The  masters'  sitting-room  was  not  remarkable  for  cosiness, 
even  when  a  fire  burnt  in  the  grate  and  the  world  of  school 
was  for  the  time  shut  out.  The  floor  was  uncarpeted,  the 
walls  illustrated  only  with  a  few  maps  and  diagrams.  There 
was  a  piano,  Avhereon  Herr  Egger  gave  his  music  lessons. 
Few  rooms  in  existence  could  have  excelled  this  for  draughts ; 
at  all  times  there  came  beneath  the  door  a  current  of  wind 
which  pierced  the  legs  like  a  knife;  imnossible  to  leave 
loose  papers  anywhere  with  a  chance  of  finding  them  in  the 
same  place  two  minutes  after. 

When  Waymark  entered  this  evening,  he  found  his  col- 
leagues seated  together  in  silence.  Mr.  Philip  O'Gree — 
"fill-up"  was  his  own  pronunciation  of  the  name — would 
have  been  worse  than  insignificant  in  appearance,  but  for 


ACADEMICAL  57 

the  expression  of  good-humour  and  geniality  which  possessed 
his  irregular  features.  He  was  red-headed,  and  had  large 
red  whiskers. 

Herr  Egger  was  a  gentleman  of  very  different  exterior. 
Tall,  thick,  ungainly,  with  a  very  heavy,  stupid  face,  coarse 
hands,  outrageous  lower  extremities.  A  mass  of  coal-black 
hair  seemed  to  weigh  down  his  head.  His  attire  was  un- 
English,  and,  one  might  suspect,  had  been  manufactured  in 
some  lonely  cottage  away  in  the  remote  Swiss  valley  which 
had  till  lately  been  the  poor  fellow's  home.  Dr.  Tootle 
never  kept  his  foreign  masters  long.  His  plan  was  to  get 
hold  of  some  foreigner  without  means,  and  ignorant  of 
English,  who  would  come  and  teach  French  or  German 
in  return  for  mere  board  and  lodging ;  when  the  man  had 
learnt  a  little  English,  and  was  in  a  position  to  demand  a 
salary,  he  was  dismissed,  and  a  new  professor  obtained. 
Egger  had  lately,  under  the  influence  of  some  desperate 
delusion,  come  to  our  hospitable  clime  in  search  of  his  for- 
tune. Of  languages  he  could  not  be  said  to  know  any ;  his 
French  and  his  German  were  of  barbarisms  all  compact ; 
English  as  yet  he  could  use  only  in  a  most  primitive  manner. 
He  must  have  been  the  most  unhappy  man  in  all  London. 
Finding  himself  face  to  face  with  large  classes  of  youngsters 
accustomed  to  no  kind  of  discipline,  in  whom  every  word 
he  uttered  merely  excited  outrageous  mirth,  he  was  hourly 
brought  to  the  very  verge  of  despair.  Constitutionally  he 
was  lachrymose ;  tears  came  from  him  freely  when  distress 
had  reached  a  climax,  and  the  contrast  between  his  unwieldy 
form  and  this  weakness  of  demeanour  supplied  inexhaustible 
occasion  for  mirth  throughout  the  school.  His  hours  of 
freedom  were  spent  in  abysmal  brooding. 

Waymark  entered  in  good  spirits.  At  the  sight  of  him, 
Mr.  O'Gree  started  from  the  fireside,  snatched  up  the  poker, 
brandished  it  wildly  about  his  head,  and  burst  into  vehement 
exclamations. 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  you've  come  in  time,  sir ;  you've  come  in  time 
to  hear  my  resoKition.  I  can't  stand  ut  any  longer ;  I  won't 
stand  ut  a  day  longer !  Mr.  Waymark,  you're  a  witness  of 
the  outrageous  way  in  which  I'm  treated  in  this  academy — 
the  way  in  which  I'm  treated  both  by  Dr.  Tootle  and  by 
Mrs.  Tootle.  You  were  witness  of  his  insulting  behaviour 
this  very  afternoon.  He  openly  takes  the  side  of  the  boys 
against  me;  he  ridicules  my  accent;  he  treats  me  as  no 


58  THE  UNCLASSED 

geutleman  can  treat  another,  unless  one  of  them's  no  gentle- 
man at  all !     And,  Mr.  Waymark,  I  won't  stand  ut ! " 

Mr.  O'Gree's  accent  was  very  strong  indeed,  especially  in 
his  present  mood-  Waymark  listened  with  what  gravity  he 
could  command. 

"  You're  quite  right,"  he  said  in  reply.  "  Tootle's  be- 
haviour was  especially  scandalous  to-day.  I  should  certainly 
take  some  kind  of  notice  of  it." 

"  Notuss,  sir,  notuss  !  I'll  take  that  amount  of  notuss  of 
it  that  all  the  metropoluss  shall  hear  of  my  wrongs.  I'll 
assault  'um,  sir ;  I'll  assault  'um  in  the  face  of  the  school, — 
the  very  next  time  he  dares  to  provoke  me !  I'll  rise  in  my 
might,  and  smite  his  bald  crown  with  his  own  ruler !  I'm 
not  a  tall  man,  Mr.  Waymark,  but  I  can  reach  his  crown, 
and  that  he  shall  be  aware  of  before  he  knows  ut.  He 
sets  me  at  naught  in  my  own  class,  sir ;  he  pooh-poohs  my 
matltematical  demonstrations,  sir ;  he  encourages  my  pupils 
in  insubordination  !  And  Mrs.  Tootle  !  Bedad,  if  I  don't 
invent  some  device  for  revenging  myself  on  that  supercilious 
woman.  The  very  next  time  she  presumes  to  address  me 
disrespectfully  at  the  dinner-table,  sir,  I'll  rise  in  my  might, 
sir, — see  if  I  don't! — and  I'll  say  to  her,  *Mrs.  Tootle, 
ma'am,  you  seem  to  forget  that  I'm  a  gentleman,  and  have 
a  gentleman's  susceptibilities.  When  I  treat  you  with  dis- 
respect, ma'am,  pray  tell  me  of  ut,  and  I'll  inform  you  you 
speak  an  untruth  I ' " 

Waymark  smiled,  with  the  result  that  the  expression  of 
furious  wrath  immediately  passed  from  his  colleague's  coun- 
tenance, giving  place  to  a  broad  grin. 

"  Waymark,  look  here  1 "  exclaimed  the  Irishman,  snatch- 
ing up  a  piece  of  chalk,  and  proceeding  to  draw  certain 
outlines  upon  a  black-board.  "  Here's  Tootle,  a  veritable 
Goliath ; — here's  me,  as  it  were  David.  Observe ;  Tootle 
holds  in  his  hand  his  '  little  compendium,'  raised  in  haughty 
superciliousness.  Observe  me  with  the  ruler ! — I  am  on 
tiptoe ;  I  am  taking  aim ;  there  is  wrath  in  every  sinew  of 
my  arrum  !  My  arrum  descends  on  the  very  centre  of 
Tootle's  bald  pate " 

"  Mr.  O'Gree  !  " 

The  tableau  was  most  effective.  Unnoticed  by  either  the 
Irishman  or  Waymark,  the  door  had  opened  behind  them, 
and  there  had  appeared  a  little  red-faced  woman,  in  slatternly 
dress.     It  was  Mrs.  Tootle.     She  had  overheard  almost  the 


ACADEMICAL  59 

whole  of  O'Gree's  vivid  comment  upon  his  graphic  illuetra- 
tion,  in  silence,  until  at  length  she  could  hold  her  peace  no 
longer,  and  gave  utterance  to  the  teacher's  name  in  a  voice 
which  trembled  with  rage  and  mortification. 

"  Mr.  O'Gree  !     Are  you  aware  of  my  presence,  sir  t " 

The  chalk  dropped  from  O'Gree's  fingers,  but  otherwise 
his  attitude  remained  unaltered ;  struck  motionless  with 
horror,  he  stood  pointing  to  the  drawing  on  the  board,  his 
face  pale,  his  eyes  fascinated  by  those  of  Mrs.  Tootle.  The 
latter  went  on  in  a  high  note. 

"  Well,  sir,  as  soon  as  you  have  had  enough  of  your 
insulting  buffoonery,  perhaps  you  will  have  the  gooiiess 
to  attend  to  me,  and  to  your  duty !  What  do  you  mean 
by  allowing  the  dormitories  to  get  into  this  state  of  uproar? 
There's  been  a  pillow-fight  going  on  for  the  last  half-hour, 
and  you  pay  no  sort  of  attention ;  the  very  house  is 
shaking  ? " 

"  I  protest  I  had  not  heard  a  sound,  ma'am,  or  I  should 
have " 

"  Perhaps  you  hear  nothing  now,  sir, — and  the  doctor 
suffering  from  one  of  his  very  worst  headaches,  utterly 
unable  to  rest  even  if  the  house  were  perfectly  quiet ! " 

O'Gree  darted  to  the  door,  past  Mrs.  Tootle,  and  was  lost 
to  sight.  There  was  indeed  a  desperate  uproar  in  the  higher 
regions  of  the  house.  In  a  moment  the  noise  increased  con- 
siderably. O'Gree  had  rushed  up  without  a  light,  and  was 
battling  desperately  in  the  darkness  with  a  score  of  piUow- 
fighters,  roaring  out  threats  the  while  at  the  top  of  hif 
voice.  Mrs.  Tootle  retired  from  the  masters'  room  with 
much  affectation  of  dignity,  leaving  the  door  open  behind 
her. 

Waymark  slammed  it  to,  and  turned  with  a  laugh  to  the 
poor  Swiss. 

"In  low  spirits  to-night,  I'm  afraid,  Mr.  Egger?' 

Egger  let  his  chair  tilt  forward,  rose  slowly,  drew  a  yellow 
handkerchief  from  his  mouth  and  wiped  his  eyes  with  it, 
then  exclaimed,  in  the  most  pitiful  voice — 

"  Mr.  Waymark,  I  have  made  my  possible ! — I  can  no 
more ! " 

It  was  his  regular  phrase  on  these  occasions ;  Waymark 
had  always  much  ado  to  refrain  from  laughter  when  he 
heard  it  repeated,  but  he  did  his  best  to  be  seriously  sym- 
pathetic, and  to  attempt  consolation  in  such  German  as  was 


6o  THE  UNCLASSED 

at  his  command.  Egger's  despondency  only  increased,  and 
he  wept  afresh  to  hear  accente  which  were  intelligible  to 
him.  Mr.  O'Gree  re-entered  the  room,  and  the  Swiss  retired 
to  his  corner. 

Philip  was  hot  with  excitement  and  bodily  exertion ;  he 
came  in  mopping  his  forehead,  and,  without  turning  to 
Waymark,  stood  with  eyes  fixed  on  the  chalk  caricatures. 
Very  gradually  he  turned  round.  Waymark  was  watching 
him,  on  his  face  an  expression  of  subdued  mirth.  Their 
looks  met,  and  both  exploded  in  laughter. 

"Bedad,  my  boy,"  exclaimed  O'Gree,  "I'm  devilish  sorry! 
I  wouldn't  have  had  it  happen  for  a  quarter's  salary, — 
though  I  sadly  need  a  new  pair  of  breeches.  She's  a  super- 
cilious cat-o-mountain,  and  she  loses  no  opportunity  of  in- 
sulting me,  but  after  all  she's  a  woman." 

"  By-the-by,  Waymark,"  he  added  in  a  moment,  "  what 
a  stunner  the  new  governess  is  !  You're  a  lucky  dog,  to  sit 
in  the  same  room  with  her.     What's  her  name,  I  say  1 " 

"  Miss  Enderby.     You've  seen  her,  have  you  ? " 

"  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  as  she  came  downstairs ;  it 
was  quite  enough ;  she  floored  me.  She's  never  been  out 
of  my  thoughts  for  a  minute  since  I  saw  her.  '  I  love  her, 
I  love  her,  and  who  shall  dare,  to  chide  me  for  loving  that 
teacher  fair  ! ' " 

"Well,  yes,"  said  Waymark,  "she  has  a,  tolerable  f  ace  j 
seems  to  me  a  long  way  too  good  to  be  teaching  those  un- 
licked  cubs.  The  dragon  wasn't  too  civil  to  her,  though 
it  was  the  first  day." 

"Not  civil  to  her?  If  I  were  present,  and  heard  that 
woman  breathe  the  slightest  incivility,  I'd " 

He  broke  ofl"  in  the  midst  of  his  vehemence  with  a  startled 
look  towards  the  door. 

"Mr.  Egger,"  he  exclaimed,  "a  song;  I  beg,  a  song. 
Come,  I'll  lead  off. 

'  Miss  Enderby  hath  a  beaming  eye ' — 

Bah  !  I'm  not  in  voice  to-night." 

Egger  was  persuaded  to  sit  down  to  the  piano.  It  was  a 
mournful  instrument,  reduced  to  discordant  wheeziness  by 
five-finger  exercises,  but  the  touch  of  the  Swiss  could  still 
evoke  from  it  some  kind  of  harmony.  He  sang  a  Volkslied,  and 
in  a  way  which  showed  that  there  was  poetry  in  the  man's 


ACADEMICAL  6i 

nature,  tliough  his  outward  appearance  gave  so  little  promise 
of  it.  His  voice  was  very  fair,  and  well  suited  to  express 
the  tender  pathos  of  these  inimitable  melodies.  Waymark 
always  enjoyed  this  singing ;  his  eyes  brightened,  and  a  fine 
emotion  played  about  his  lips.  And  as  he  walked  along 
the  dark  ways  to  his  lodgings,  Egger's  voice  was  still  in 
his  ears — 

**  Der  i/ensch  wenn  er  fortgeht,  der  kommt  nimmermehr." 

"  Heaven  be  thanked,  no ! "  the  young  man  said  to 
himself. 

Poverty  was  his  familiar  companion,  and  had  been  so  for 
years.  His  rent  paid  each  week,  there  often  remained  a 
sum  quite  insufficient  for  the  absolute  necessities  of  exist- 
ence ;  for  anything  more,  he  had  to  look  to  chance  pupils  in 
the  evenings,  and  what  little  he  could  earn  with  his  pen. 
He  wrote  constantly,  but  as  yet  had  only  succeeded  in  get- 
ting two  articles  printed.  Then,  it  was  a  necessity  of  his 
existence  to  mix  from  time  to  time  in  thelife  of  the  town, 
and  a  stroll  into  the  Strand  after  nightfall  inevitably  led  to 
the  expenditure  of  whatever  cash  his  pocket  contained.  He 
was  passionately  found  of  the  theatre  ;  the  lights  about  the 
open  entrance  drew  him  on  irresistibly,  and  if,  as  so  often, 
he  had  to  choose  between  a  meal  and  a  seat  in  the  gallery, 
the  meal  was  sacrificed.  Hunger,  indeed,  was  his  normal 
state ;  semi-starvation,  alternating  with  surfeits  of  cheap 
and  unwholesome  food,  brought  about  an  unhealthy  condi- 
tion of  body.  Often  he  returned  to  Walcot  Square  from 
liis  day-long  drudgery,  and  threw  himself  upon  the  bed,  too 
exhausted  to  light  a  fire  and  make  his  tea, — for  he  was  his 
own  servant  in  all  things  except  the  weekly  cleaning-out  of 
the  room.  Those  were  dark  hours,  and  they  had  to  be 
struggled  through  in  solitude. 

Weary  as  he  was  he  seldom  went  to  bed  before  midnight, 
sometimes  long  after,  for  he  clung  to  those  few  hours  of 
freedom  with  something  like  savage  obstinacy  ;  during  this 
small  portion  of  each  day  at  least,  he  would  possess  his  own 
soul,  be  free  to  think  and  read.  Then  came  the  penalty  of 
anguish  unutterable  when  the  mornin'jf  had  to  be  faced. 
These  dark,  foggy  Fel)ruary  mornings  crushed  him  with  a 
recurring  misery  which  often  drove  him  to  the  verge  of 
mania.     His  head  throbbing  with  the  torture  of  insufficient 


62  THE  UNCLASSED 

sleep,  he  lay  in  dull  half-conscioua  misery  till  there  was  no 
longer  time  to  prepare  breakfast,  and  he  had  to  hasten  off  to 
school  after  a  mouthful  of  dry  bread  which  choked  him. 
There  had  been  moments  when  his  strength  failed,  and  he 
found  his  eyes  filling  with  tears  of  wretchedness.  To  face 
the  hideous  drudgery  of  the  day's  teaching  often  cost  him 
more  than  it  had  cost  many  men  to  face  the  scaffold.  The 
hours  between  nine  and  one,  the  hours  between  half-past 
two  and  five,  Waymark  cursed  them  minute  by  minute,  as 
their  awful  length  was  measured  by  the  crawling  hands  of 
the  school-clock.  He  tried  sometimes,  in  mere  self-defence, 
to  force  himself  into  an  interest  in  his  work,  that  the  time 
might  go  the  quicker;  but  the  effort  was  miserably  vain. 
His  senses  reeled  amid  the  din  and  rattle  of  classes  where 
discipline  was  unknown  and  intelligence  almost  indiscover- 
able.  Not  seldom  his  temper  got  the  better  even  of  sick 
lassitude  ;  his  face  at  such  times  paled  with  passion,  and  in 
ungoverned  fury  he  raved  at  his  tormentors.  He  awed 
them,  too,  but  only  for  the  moment,  and  the  waste  of  misery 
swallowed  him  up  once  more. 

Was  this  to  be  his  life  t — he  asked  himself.  "Would  this 
last  for  ever  1 

For  some  reason,  the  morning  after  the  visit  to  the 
masters'  room  just  spoken  of  found  him  in  rather  better 
spirits  than  usual.  Perhaps  it  was  that  he  had  slept  fairly 
well ;  a  gleam  of  unwonted  sunshine  had  doubtless  some- 
thing to  do  with  it.  Yet  there  was  another  reason,  though 
he  would  scarcely  admit  it  to  himself.  It  was  the  day  on 
which  he  gave  a  drawing-lesson  to  Dr.  Tootle's  two  eldest 
children.  These  di  awing-lessons  were  always  given  in  a  room 
upstairs,  which  was  also  appropriated  to  the  governess  who 
came  every  morning  to  teach  three  other  young  Tootles,  two 
girls  and  a  boy,  the  latter  considered  not  yet  old  enough  to 
go  into  the  school.  On  the  previous  day,  Waymark  had 
been  engaged  in  the  room  for  half  an  hour  touching  up  some 
drawings  of  boys  in  the  school,  which  were  about  to  be  sent 
home.  He  knew  that  he  should  find  a  fresh  governess  busy 
with  the  children,  the  lady  hitherto  employed  having  gone 
at  a  moment's  notice  after  a  violent  quarrel  with  Mrs.  Tootle, 
an  incident  which  had  happened  not  infrequently  before. 
When  he  entered  the  room,  he  saw  a  young  woman  seated 
with  her  back  to  him,  penning  a  copy,  whilst  the  children 
jumped  and  rioted  about  her  in  their  usual  fashion.     The 


ACADEMICAL  63 

late  governess  had  been  a  mature  person  of  features  rather 
serviceable  than  handsome ;  that  her  successor  was  of  a 
different  type  appeared  sufficiently  from  the  fair  round  head, 
the  gracefully  bended  neck,  the  perfect  shoulders,  the  slight, 
beautiful  form.  Waymark  took  his  place  and  waited  with 
some  curiosity  till  she  moved.  When  she  did  so,  and,  rising, 
suddenly  became  aware  of  his  presence,  there  was  a  little 
start  on  both  sides  ;  Miss  Enderby — so  Waymark  soon  heard 
her  called  by  the  pupils — had  not  been  aware,  owing  to  the 
noise,  of  a  stranger's  entrance,  and  Waymark  on  his  side 
was  so  struck  with  the  face  presented  to  him.  He  had 
expected,  at  the  most,  a  pretty  girl  of  the  commonplace 
kind :  he  saw  a  countenance  in  which  refinement  was  as 
conspicuous  as  beauty.  She  was  probably  not  more  than 
eighteen  or  nineteen.  In  speaking  with  the  children  she 
rarely  if  ever  smiled,  but  exhibited  a  gentle  forbearance 
which  had  something  touching  in  it ;  it  was  almost  as  though 
she  appealed  for  gentleness  in  return,  and  feared  a  harsh 
word  or  look. 

"Tliat's  Mr.  Waymark,"  cried  out  Master  Percy  Tootle, 
when  his  overquick  eyes  perceived  that  the  two  had  seen 
each  other.  "  He's  our  drawing-master.  Do  you  like  the 
look  of  him?" 

Miss  Enderby  reddened,  and  laid  her  hand  on  the  boy's 
arm,  trying  to  direct  his  attention  to  a  book.  But  the 
youngster  shook  off  her  gentle  touch,  and  looked  at  his 
brothers  and  sisters  with  a  much  too  knowing  grin.  Way- 
mark  had  contented  himself  with  a  slight  bow,  and  at  once 
bent  again  over  his  work. 

Very  shortly  the  two  eldest  children,  both  girls,  came  in, 
and  with  them  their  mother.  The  latter  paid  no  attention 
to  Waymark,  but  proceeded  to  cross-examine  the  new  gover- 
ness as  to  her  methods  of  teaching,  her  experience,  and  so 
on,  in  the  coarse  and  loud  manner  which  characterised  Mrs. 
Tootle. 

"You'll  find  my  children  clever,"  said  Mrs.  Tootle,  "at 
least,  that  has  been  the  opinion  of  all  their  teachers  hitherto. 
If  they  don't  make  progress,  it  certainly  will  not  be  their 
own  fault.  At  the  same  time,  they  are  high-spirited,  and 
require  to  be  discreetly  managed.  This,  as  I  previously  in- 
formed you,  must  be  done  without  the  help  of  punishment 
in  any  shape ;  I  disajiprove  of  those  methods  altogether. 
Now  let  me  hear  you  give  them  a  lesson  in  geography." 


64  THE  UNCLASSED 

Waymark  retired  at  this  juncture ;  he  felt  that  it  would 
be  nothing  less  than  cruelty  to  remain.  The  episode,  how- 
ever, had  lightened  his  day  with  an  interest  of  a  very  un- 
usual kind.  And  so  it  was  that,  on  the  following  morning, 
not  only  the  gleam  of  watery  sunshine,  but  also  the  thought 
of  an  hour  to  be  spent  in  the  presence  of  that  timid  face, 
brought  him  on  his  way  to  the  school  with  an  unwonted 
resignation.  Unfortunately  his  drawing  lessons  were  only 
given  on  two  mornings  in  the  week.  Still,  there  would  be 
something  in  future  to  look  forward  to,  a  novel  sensation  at 
The  Academy. 


CHAPTEE  IX 

THE  COUSINS 

Harriet  Smalbs  had  left  home  in  a  bad  temper  that  Sunday 
afternoon,  and  when  she  came  back  to  tea,  after  her  walk 
with  Julian,  her  state  of  mind  did  not  appear  to  have  under- 
gone any  improvement.  She  took  her  place  at  the  tea-table 
in  silence.  She  and  Mrs.  Ogle  were  alone  this  evening ;  the 
latter's  husband — he  was  a  journeyman  printer,  and  left 
entirely  in  his  wife's  hands  the  management  of  the  shop  in 
Gray's  Inn  Road — happened  to  be  away.  Mrs.  Ogle  was  a 
decent,  cheerful  woman,  of  motherly  appearance.  She  made 
one  or  two  attempts  to  engage  Harriet  in  conversation,  but, 
failing,  subsided  into  silence,  only  looking  askance  at  the 
girl  from  time  to  time.  When  she  had  finished  her  tea  and 
bread-and-butter,  Harriet  coughed,  and,  without  facing  her 
companion,  spoke  in  rather  a  cold  way. 

"I  may  be  late  back  to-night,  Mrs.  Ogle.  You  won't 
lock  the  door  1" 

"  I  sha'n't  go  to  bed  till  eleven  myself,"  was  the  reply. 

"  But  it  may  be  after  twelve  when  I  get  back." 

"  Where  are  you  going  to,  Harriet  ? " 

"  If  you  must  know  always,  Mrs.  Ogle,  I'm  going  to  see 
my  friend  in  Westminster." 

"  Well,  it  ain't  no  business  of  mine,  my  girl,"  returned 
the  woman,  not  imkindly,  "but  I  think  it's  only  right  I 
should  have  some  idea  where  you  spend  your  nights.  As 
long  as  you  live  in  my  house,  I'm  responsible  for  you,  in 
a  way." 


THE  COUSINS  65 

"I  don't  want  any  one  to  be  responsible  for  me,  Mrs. 
Ogle." 

"Maybe  not,  my  girl.  But  young  people  ain't  always 
the  best  judges  of  what's  good  for  them,  and  what  isn't. 
I  don't  think  your  cousin  'ud  approve  of  your  being  out  so 
late.    I  shall  sit  up  for  you,  and  you  mustn't  be  after  twelve." 

It  was  said  very  decidedly.  Harriet  made  no  reply,  but 
speedily  dressed  and  went  out  She  took  an  omnibus  east- 
ward, and  sought  a  neighbourhood  which  most  decently 
dressed  people  would  have  been  chary  of  entering  after 
nightfall,  or  indeed  at  any  other  time,  unless  compelled  to 
do  so.  The  girl  found  the  object  of  her  walk  in  a  dirty 
little  public-house  at  the  corner  of  two  foul  and  narrow 
by-ways.  She  entered  by  a  private  door,  and  passed  into  a 
parlour,  which  was  behind  the  bar. 

A  woman  was  sitting  in  the  room,  beguiling  her  leisure 
with  a  Sunday  paper.  She  was  dressed  with  vulgar  showi- 
ness,  and  made  a  lavish  display  of  jewellery,  more  or  less 
valuable.  Eight  years  ago  she  was  a  servant  in  Mr.  Smales's 
house,  and  her  name  was  Sarah.  She  had  married  in  the 
meanwhile,  and  become  Mrs.  Sprowl. 

She  welcomed  her  visitor  with  a  friendly  nod,  but  did 
not  rise. 

"I  thought  it  likely  you'd  look  in,  as  you  missed  larst 
week.     How's  things  goin'  in  your  part  o'  the  world  ? " 

"Very  badly,"  returned  Harriet,  throwing  off  her  hat  and 
cloak,  and  going  to  warm  her  hands  and  feet  at  the  fire. 
"  It  won't  last  much  longer,  that's  the  truth  of  it." 

"  Eh  well,  it's  all  in  a  life ;  we  all  has  our  little  trials  an' 
troubles,  as  the  say  in'  is." 

"  How's  the  baby  ■? "  asked  Harriet  looking  towards  a 
bundle  of  wrappers  which  lay  on  a  sofa. 

"I  doubt  it's  too  good  for  this  world,"  returned  the 
mother,  grinning  in  a  way  which  made  her  ugly  face  pecu- 
liarly revolting.  "Dessay  it'll  join  its  little  brother  an' 
sister  before  long.     Mike  put  it  in  the  club  yes'day." 

The  burial-club,  Mrs.  Sprowl  meant,  and  Harriet  evidently 
understood  the  allusion. 

"Have  you  walked?"  went  on  the  woman,  doubling  up 
her  paper,  and  then  throwing  it  aside.  "  Dessay  you  could 
do  with  somethin'  to  take  the  cold  orfF  yer  chest. — Liz," 
she  called  out  to  some  one  behind  the  bar,  with  which  the 
parlour  communicated  by  an  open  door ;  "  two  Irish  !  " 

K 


66  THE  UNCLASSED 

The  liquor  was  brought  Presently  some  one  called  to 
Mrs.  Sprowl,  who  went  out.  Leaning  on  the  counter,  in 
one  of  the  compartments,  was  something  which  a  philan- 
thropist might  perhaps  have  had  the  courage  to  claim  as  a 
human  being ;  a  very  taU  creature,  with  bent  shoulders,  and 
head  seeming  to  grow  straight  out  of  its  chest;  thick, 
grizzled  hair  hiding  almost  every  vestige  of  feature,  with  the 
exception  of  one  dreadful  red  eye,  its  fellow  being  dead  and 
sightless.  He  had  laid  on  the  counter,  with  palms  down- 
ward as  if  concealing  something,  two  huge  hairy  paws.  Mrs. 
Sprowl  seemed  familiar  with  the  appearance  of  this  monster ; 
she  addressed  him  rather  bad-temperedly,  but  otherwise 
much  as  she  would  have  spoken  to  any  other  customer. 

"  No,  you  don't,  Slimy  !  No,  you  don't !  What  you  have 
in  this  house  you  pay  for  in  coppers,  so  you  know.  Next 
time  I  catch  you  tryin'  to  ring  the  changes,  I'll  have  you 
run  in,  and  then  you'll  get  a  warm  bath,  which  you  wouldn't 
partic'lar  care  for." 

The  creature  spoke,  in  hoarse,  jumbled  words,  not  easy  to 
catch  unless  you  listened  closely, 

"  If  you've  any  accusion  to  make  agin  me,  Mrs.  Sprowl, 
p'r'aps  you'll  wait  till  you  can  prove  it.  I  want  change  for 
arf  a  suvrin  :  ain't  that  straight,  now  1 " 

"  Straight  or  not,  you  won't  get  no  change  over  this 
counter,  so  there  you've  the  straight  tip.  Now  sling  yer 
'ook.  Slimy,  an'  get  it  somewhere  else." 

"  If  you've  any  accusion  to  make  " 

"  Hold  yer  noise  ! — What's  he  ordered,  Liz  ? " 

"  Pot  o'  old  six,"  answered  the  girl. 

"  Got  sixpence.  Slimy  1 " 

"  No,  I  ain't,  Mrs.  Sprowl,"  muttered  the  creature.  "I've 
got  arf  a  suvrin." 

'*  Then  go  an'  get  change  for  it.  Now,  once  more,  sling 
yer  'ook." 

The  man  moved  away,  sending  back  a  horrible  glare  from 
his  one  fiery  eyeball. 

Mrs.  Sprowl  re-entered  the  parlour. 

"  I  wish  you'd  take  me  on  as  barmaid,  Sarah,"  Harriet 
said,  when  she  had  drunk  her  glass  of  spirits. 

"Take  you  on?"  exclaimed  the  other,  with  surprise. 
"  Why,  have  you  fallen  out  with  your  cousin  1  I  thought 
you  was  goin'  to  be  married  soon." 

"  I  didn't  say  for  sure  that  I  was ;  I  only  said  I  might 


THE  COUSINS  67 

be.  Any  way  it  won't  be  just  yet,  and  I'm  tired  of  my 
place  in  the  shop." 

"  Don't  you  be  a  fool,  Harriet,"  said  the  other,  with  genial 
frankness.  "  You're  well  enough  off.  You  stick  where  you 
are  till  you  get  married.  You  wouldn't  make  nothin'  at  our 
business  ;  'tain't  all  sugar  an'  lemon,  an'  sittin'  drinkin'  twos 
o'  whisky  till  further  orders.  You  want  a  quiet,  easy 
business,  you  do,  an'  you've  got  it.  If  you  keep  worritin' 
yerself  this  way,  you  won't  never  make  old  bones,  an'  that's 
the  truth.  You  wait  a  bit,  an'  give  yer  cousin  a  chance  to 
arst  you, — if  that's  what  you're  troublin'  about." 

"  I've  given  him  lots  o'  chances,"  said  Harriet  peevishly. 

"Eh  well,  give  him  lots  more,  an'  it'll  all  come  right. 
We're  all  born,  but  we're  not  buiied. — Hev'  another  Irish  ? " 

Harriet  allowed  herself  to  be  persuaded  to  take  another 
glass. 

When  the  clock  pointed  to  half-past  nine,  she  rose  and 
prepared  to  depart.  She  had  told  Mrs.  Sprowl  that  she 
would  take  the  'bus  and  go  straight  home ;  but  something 
seemed  to  have  led  her  to  alter  her  purpose,  for  she  made 
her  way  to  Westminster  Bridge,  and  crossed  the  river.  Then 
she  made  some  inquiries  of  a  policeman,  and,  in  consequence, 
got  into  a  Kennington  omnibus.  Very  shortly  she  was  set 
down  close  by  Walcot  Square.  She  walked  about  till,  with 
some  difficiilty  in  the  darkness,  she  had  discovered  the 
number  at  which  Julian  had  told  her  his  friend  lived.  The 
house  found,  she  began  to  pace  up  and  down  on  the  opposite 
pavement,  always  keeping  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  same  door. 
She  was  soon  shivering  in  the  cold  night  air,  and  quickened 
her  walk.  It  was  rather  more  than  an  hour  before  the  door 
she  was  watching  at  length  opened,  and  two  friends  came  out 
together.  Harriet  followed  them  as  closely  as  she  could, 
until  she  saw  that  she  herself  was  observed.  Thereupon 
she  walked  away,  and,  by  a  circuit,  ultimately  came  back 
into  the  main  road,  where  she  took  a  'bus  going  northwards. 

Harriet's  cousin,  when  alone  of  an  evening,  sat  in  his 
bedroom,  the  world  shut  out,  his  thoughts  in  long  past 
times,  rebuilding  the  ruins  of  a  fallen  Empire. 

When  he  was  eighteen,  the  lad  had  the  good  luck  to 
light  upon  a  cheap  copy  of  Gibbon  in  a  second-hand  book- 
shop. It  was  the  first  edition ;  six  noble  quarto  volumes, 
clean  and  firm  in  the  old  bindings.     Often  he  had  turned 


68  THE  UNCLASSED 

longing  eyes  upon  newer  copies  of  the  great  book,  but  the 
price  had  always  put  them  beyond  his  reach.  That  very 
night  he  solemnly  laid  open  the  first  volume  at  the  first 
page,  propping  it  on  a  couple  of  meaner  books,  and,  after 
glancing  through  the  short  Preface,  began  to  read  with  a 
mind  as  devoutly  disposed  as  that  of  any  pious  believer 
poring  upon  his  Bible.  "In  the  second  century  of  the 
Christian  ^ra,  the  empire  of  Rome  comprehended  the 
fairest  part  of  the  earth,  and  the  most  civilised  portion  of 
mankind.  The  frontiers  of  that  extensive  monarchy  were 
guarded  by  ancient  renown  and  disciplined  valour."  With 
what  a  grand  epic  roll,  with  what  anticipations  of  solemn 
music,  did  the  noble  history  begin  !  Far,  far  into  the  night 
Julian  turned  over  page  after  page,  thoughtless  of  sleep  and 
the  commonplace  duties  of  the  morrow. 

Since  then  he  had  mastered  his  Gibbon,  knew  him  from 
end  to  end,  and  joyed  in  him  more  than  ever.  Whenever 
he  had  a  chance  of  obtaining  any  of  the  writers,  ancient  or 
modern,  to  whom  Gibbon  refers,  he  read  them  and  added 
to  his  knowledge.  About  a  year  ago,  he  had  picked  up  an 
old  Claudian,  and  the  reading  of  the  poet  had  settled  him 
to  a  task  which  he  had  before  that  doubtfully  sought.  He 
wanted  to  write  either  a  poem  or  a  drama  on  some  subject 
taken  from  the  "  Decline  and  Fall,"  and  now,  with  Claudian's 
help,  he  fixed  upon  Stilicho  for  his  hero.  The  form,  he 
then  decided,  should  be  dramatic.  Upon  "Stilicho"  he 
had  now  been  engaged  for  a  year,  and  to-night  he  is  writing 
the  last  words  of  the  last  scene.  Shortly  after  twelve  he 
has  finished  it,  and,  throwing  down  his  pen,  he  paces  about 
the  room  with  enviable  feelings. 

He  had  not  as  yet  mentioned  to  Waymark  the  work  he 
was  engaged  upon,  though  he  had  confessed  that  he  wrote 
verses  at  times.  He  wished  to  complete  it,  and  then  read 
it  to  his  friend.  It  was  now  only  the  middle  of  the  week, 
and  though  he  had  decided  previously  to  wait  till  his  visit 
to  Walcot  Square  next  Sunday  before  saying  a  word  about 
"  Stilicho,"  he  could  not  refrain  now  from  hastily  penning  a 
note  to  Waymark,  and  going  out  to  post  it  at  once. 

When  the  day  came,  the  weather  would  not  allow  the 
usual  walk  with  Harriet,  and  Julian  could  not  help  feeling 
glad  that  it  was  so.  He  was  too  pre-occupied  to  talk  in  the 
usual  way  with  the  girl,  and  he  knew  how  vain  it  would 
be  to  try  and  make  her  understand  his  state  of  mind.     StUl, 


THE  COUSINS  69 

he  went  to  see  her  as  usual,  and  sat  for  an  hour  in  Mrs. 
Ogle's  parlour.  At  times,  throiighout  the  week,  he  had 
thought  of  the  curious  resemblance  between  Harriet  and 
the  girl  he  had  noticed  on  leaving  Waymark's  house  last 
Sunday,  and  now  he  asked  her,  in  a  half-jesting  way, 
whether  it  had  really  been  she. 

"How  could  it  be?"  said  Harriet  carelessly.  "I  can't 
be  in  two  places  at  once." 

"  Did  you  stay  at  home  that  evening  ? " 

"  No, — not  all  the  evening." 

*'  What  friends  are  they  you  go  to,  when  you  are  out  at 
night,  Harriet?" 

"  Oh,  some  relations  of  the  Colchester  people. — I  suppose 
you've  been  spending  most  of  your  time  in  Kennington  since 
Sunday  ? " 

"I  haven't  left  home.  In  fact,  I've  been  very  busy. 
I've  just  finished  some  work  that  has  occupied  me  for  nearly 
a  year." 

After  all,  he  could  not  refrain  from  speaking  of  it,  though 
he  had  made  up  his  mind  not  to  do  so. 

"  Work  ?  What  work  1 "  asked  Harriet,  with  the  suspicious 
look  which  came  into  her  grey  eyes  whenever  she  heard 
something  she  could  not  understand. 

"  Some  writing.     I've  written  a  play." 

"  A  play  ?     Will  it  be  acted  ? " 

"  Oh  no,  it  isn't  meant  for  acting." 

"  What's  the  good  of  it  then  ? " 

"It's  written  in  verse.  I  shall  perhaps  try  to  get  it 
published." 

"Shall  you  get  money  for  it?" 

"  That  is  scarcely  likely.  In  all  probability  I  shall  not 
be  able  to  get  it  printed  at  all." 

"Then  what's  the  good  of  it?"  repeated  Harriet,  still 
suspicious,  and  a  little  contemptuous. 

"  It  has  given  me  pleasure,  that's  all." 

Julian  was  glad  when  at  length  he  could  take  his  leave. 
Waymark  received  him  with  a  pleased  smile,  and  much 
questioning. 

"Why  did  you  keep  it  such  a  secret?  I  shall  try  my 
hand  at  a  play  some  day  or  other,  but,  as  you  can  guess,  the 
material  will  scarcely  be  sought  in  Gibbon.  It  will  be 
desperately  modern,  and  possiljly  not  altogether  in  accord- 
ance with  the  views  of  the  Lord  Chamberlain.     What's  the 


7©  THE  UNCLASSED 

time  1  Four  o'clock.  We'll  have  a  cup  of  coffee  and  then 
fall  to.  I'm  eager  to  hear  your  '  deep-chested  music,'  your 
'  hollow  oes  and  aes.' " 

The  reading  took  some  three  hours ;  Waymark  smoked  a 
vast  number  of  pipes  the  while,  and  was  silent  till  the  close. 
Then  he  got  up  from  his  easy-chair,  took  a  step  forward, 
and  held  out  his  hand.  His  face  shone  with  the  frankest 
enthusiasm.  He  could  not  express  himself  with  sufficient 
vehemence.  Julian  sat  with  the  manuscript  rolled  up  in 
his  hands,  on  his  face  a  glow  of  delight. 

"  It's  very  kind  of  you  to  speak  in  this  way,"  he  faltered 
at  length. 

"  Kind !  How  the  deuce  should  I  speak  1  But  come, 
we  will  have  this  off  to  a  publisher's  forthwith.  Have  you 
any  ideas  for  the  next  work  1 " 

"  Yes ;  but  so  daring  that  they  hardly  bear  putting  into 
words." 

"  Try  the  efTect  on  me." 

"I  have  thought,"  said  Julian,  with  embarassment,  "of 
a  long  poem — an  Epic.  Virgil  wrote  of  the  founding  of 
Rome  ;  her  dissolution  is  as  grand  a  subject.  It  would  mean 
years  of  preparation,  and  again  years  in  the  writing.  The 
siege  and  capture  of  Rome  by  Alaric — what  do  you  think  1 " 

"  A  work  not  to  be  raised  from  the  heat  of  youth,  or  the 
vapours  of  wine.     But  who  knows  ?  " 

There  was  high  talk  in  Walcot  Square  that  evening.  All 
unknown  to  its  other  inhabitants,  the  poor  lodging-house 
was  converted  into  a  temple  of  the  Muses,  and  harmonies  as 
from  Apollo's  lyre  throbbed  in  the  hearts  of  the  two  friends. 
The  future  was  their  inexhaustible  subject,  the  seed-plot  of 
strange  hopes  and  desires.  They  talked  the  night  into 
morning,  hardly  daunted  when  perforce  they  remembered 
the  day's  work. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  WAY   OUT 

The  ruling  spirit  of  the  Academy  was  Mrs.  Tootle.  Her 
husband's  constitutional  headache,  and  yet  more  constitu- 
tional laziness,  left  to  her  almost  exclusively  the  congenial 
task  of  guiding  the  household,  and  even  of  disciplining  the 


THE  WAY  OUT  71 

school.  In  lesson-time  she  would  even  flit  about  the  class- 
rooms, and  not  scruple  to  administer  sharp  rebukes  to  a 
teacher  whose  pupils  were  disorderly,  the  effect  of  this 
naturally  being  to  make  confusion  worse  confounded.  The 
boys  of  course  hated  her  with  the  hatred  of  which  school- 
boys alone  are  capable,  and  many  a  practical  joke  was  played 
at  her  expense,  not,  however,  with  impunity.  Still  more 
pronounced,  if  possible,  was  the  animus  entertained  against 
Mrs.  Tootle's  offspring,  and  it  was  upon  the  head  of  Master 
Felix  that  the  full  energy  of  detestation  concentrated  itself. 
He  was,  in  truth,  as  offensive  a  young  imp  as  the  soil  of  a 
middle-class  boarding-school  could  well  produce.  If  Mrs. 
Tootle  ruled  the  Academy,  he  in  turn  ruled  Mrs.  Tootle, 
and  on  all  occasions  showed  himself  a  most  exemplary  auto- 
crat. His  position,  however,  as  in  the  case  of  certain  other 
autocratic  rulers,  had  its  disadvantages ;  he  could  never 
venture  to  wander  out  of  earshot  of  his  father  or  mother, 
who  formed  his  body-guard,  and  the  utmost  prudence  did 
not  suffice  to  protect  him  from  an  occasional  punch  on  the 
head,  or  a  nip  in  a  tender  part,  meant  probably  as  earnest  of 
more  substantial  kindnesses  to  be  conferred  upon  him  at  the 
very  earliest  opportunity. 

To  poor  Egger  fell  the  unpleasant  duty  of  instructing  these 
young  Tootles  in  the  elements  of  the  French  language.  For 
that  purpose  he  went  up  every  morning  to  the  class-room  on 
the  first  floor,  and  for  a  while  relieved  Miss  Euderby  of  her 
charge.  With  anguish  of  spirit  he  felt  the  approach  of  the 
moment  which  summoned  him  to  this  dread  duty,  for.  in 
addition  to  the  lively  spite  of  ^Master  Felix  and  the  other 
children,  he  had  to  face  the  awful  superintendence  of  Mrs. 
Tootle  herself,  who  was  invariably  present  at  these  lessons. 
Mrs.  Tootle  had  somehow  conceived  the  idea  that  French  was 
a  second  mother-tongue  to  her,  and  her  intercourse  with  Mr. 
Egger  was  invariably  carried  on  in  that  language.  Now  this 
was  a  refinement  of  torture,  seeing  that  it  was  often  impos- 
sible to  gatlier  a  meaning  from  her  remarks,  whilst  to  show 
any  such  dilHculty  was  to  incur  her  most  furious  wrath. 
Egger  trembled  when  he  heard  the  rustle  of  her  dress  out- 
side, the  perspiration  stood  on  his  forehead  as  he  rose  and 
bowed  before  her. 

"Bon  jour,  Monsieur,"  she  would  come  in  exclaiming. 
"  Quel  un  beau  matin  !  Vous  trouverez  les  jeunes  dames  et 
messieurs  en  bons  esprits  ce  matin." 


72  THE  UNCLASSED 

The  spirits  of  Master  Felix  had  manifested  themselves 
already  in  his  skilfully  standing  a  book  upright  on  the 
teacher's  chair,  so  that  when  Egger  subsided  from  his  obeis- 
ance he  sat  down  on  a  sharp  edge  and  was  thrown  into 
confusion. 

"  Monsieur  F^lix,"  cried  his  mother,  "  que  faites-vous  1^  ? 
— Les  jeunes  messieurs  anglais  sont  plus  spirituels  que  les 
jeunes  messieurs  suisses,  n'est  ce  pas,  Monsieur  Egger  f " 

"En  efFet,  madame,"  muttered  the  teacher,  nervously 
arranging  his  books. 

"  Monsieur  Egger,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Tootle,  with  a  burst 
of  good  humour,  "  est-ce  vrai  ce  qu'on  dit  que  les  Suisses 
sont  si  excessivement  sujets  k  etre  chez-malades  ?  " 

The  awful  moment  had  come.  What  on  earth  did  chez- 
malades  mean  1  Was  he  to  answer  yes  or  no  ?  In  his 
ignorance  of  her  meaning,  either  reply  might  prove  offensive. 
He  reddened,  fidgeted  on  his  chair,  looked  about  him  with 
an  anguished  mute  appeal  for  help.  Mrs.  Tootle  repeated 
her  question  with  emphasis  and  a  change  of  countenance 
which  he  knew  too  well.  The  poor  fellow  had  not  the  tact 
to  appear  to  understand,  and,  as  he  might  easily  have  done, 
mystify  her  by  some  idiomatic  remark.  He  stammered  out 
his  apologies  and  excuses,  with  the  effect  of  making  Mrs. 
Tootle  furious. 

Then  followed  a  terrible  hour,  at  the  end  of  which  poor 
Egger  rushed  down  to  the  Masters'  Room,  covered  his  head 
with  his  hands  and  wept,  regardless  of  the  boy  strumming 
his  exercises  on  the  piano.  Waymark  shortly  came  in  to 
summon  him  to  some  other  class,  whereupon  he  rose,  and, 
with  gestures  of  despair,  groaned  out — 

"  Let  me,  let  me  ! — I  have  made  my  possible ;  I  can  no 
more !  " 

Waymark  alone  feared  neither  Mrs.  Tootle  nor  her  hopeful 
son,  and,  in  turn,  was  held  in  some  little  awe  by  both  of 
them.  The  lady  had  at  first  tried  the  effect  of  interfering 
in  his  classes,  as  she  did  in  those  of  the  other  masters,  but 
the  result  was  not  encouraging. 

"Don't  you  think,  Mr.  Waymark,"  she  had  said  one  day, 
as  she  walked  through  the  school-room  and  paused  to  listen 
to  our  friend's  explanation  of  some  rule  in  English  grammar ; 
"don't  you  think  it  would  be  better  to  confine  yourself  to 
the  terms  of  the  doctor's  little  compendium  ?  The  boys  are 
used  to  it" 


THE  WAY  OUT  73 


<( 


In  this  case,"  replied  Waymark  calmly,  "  I  think  the 
terms  of  the  compendium  are  rather  too  technical  for  the 
fourth  class," 

"  Still,  it  is  customary  in  this  school  to  use  the  compendium, 
and  it  has  never  yet  been  found  unsatisfactory.  Whilst  you 
are  discoursing  at  such  length,  I  observe  your  class  gets  very 
disorderly." 

Waymark  looked  at  her,  but  kept  silence.  Mrs.  Tootle 
stood  still. 

"  What  are  you  waiting  for,  Mr.  Waymark  1 "  she  asked 
sharply. 

"  Till  your  presence  has  ceased  to  distract  the  boys'  atten- 
tion, Mrs.  Tootle,"  was  the  straightforward  reply. 

The  woman  was  disconcerted,  and,  as  Waymark  preserved 
his  calm  silence,  she  had  no  alternative  but  to  withdraw, 
after  giving  him  a  look  not  easily  forgotten. 

But  tliere  was  another  person  whose  sufferings  under  the 
tyranny  of  mother  and  children  were  perhaps  keenest  of  all. 
Waymark  had  frequent  opportunities  of  observing  Miss 
Enderby  under  persecution,  and  learned  to  recognise  in  her 
the  signs  of  acutest  misery.  Many  times  he  left  the  room, 
rather  than  add  to  her  pain  by  his  presence  ;  very  often  it 
was  as  much  as  he  could  do  to  refrain  from  taking  her  part, 
and  defending  her  against  Mrs.  Tootle.  He  had  never  been 
formally  introduced  to  Miss  Enderby,  and  during  several 
weeks  held  no  kind  of  communication  with  her  beyond  a 
"  good  morning  "  when  he  entered  the  room  and  found  her 
there.  The  first  quarter  of  a  year  was  drawing  to  a  close 
when  there  occurred  the  first  conversation  between  them. 
Waymark  had  been  giving  some  of  the  children  their  draw- 
ing-lesson, whilst  the  governess  taught  the  two  youngest. 
The  class-time  being  over,  the  youngsters  all  scampered  off. 
Eor  a  wonder,  Mrs.  Tootle  was  not  present,  and  W^aymark 
seized  the  opportunity  to  exchange  a  word  with  the  young 
lady. 

"  I  fear  your  pupils  give  you  dreadful  trouble,"  he  said, 
as  he  stood  by  the  windcnv  pointing  a  pencil. 

She  started  at  being  sjjoken  to. 

"  They  are  full  of  life,"  she  replied,  in  the  low  sad  voice 
which  was  natural  to  her. 

"  Wliich  would  all  seem  to  be  directed  towards  shortening 
that  of  others,"  said  Waymark,  with  a  smile. 

"  They  are  intelligent,"  the  governess  ventured  to  suggest, 


74  THE  UNCLASSED 

after  a  silence.  "  It  would  be  a  pleasure  to  teach  them  if 
they — if  they  were  a  little  more  orderly." 

"  Certainly.    If  their  parents  had  only  common  sense  " 

He  stopped.  A  flush  had  risen  to  the  girl's  face,  and  a 
slight  involuntary  motion  of  her  hand  seemed  to  warn  him. 
The  reason  was  that  Mrs.  Tootle  stood  in  the  doorway,  to 
which  he  had  his  back  turned.  Miss  Enderby  said  a  quick 
*'  good  morning  "  and  left  him. 

He  was  taking  up  some  papers,  preparatory  to  leaving  the 
room,  when  he  noticed  that  the  governess  had  left  behind 
her  a  little  book  in  which  she  was  accustomed  to  jot  down 
lessons  for  the  children.  He  took  it  up  and  examined  it. 
On  the  first  page  was  written  '*  Maud  Enderby,  South  Bank, 
Regent's  Park."  He  repeated  the  name  to  himself  several 
times.  Then  he  smiled,  recalling  the  way  in  which  the 
governess  had  warned  him  that  Mrs.  Tootle  could  overhear 
what  he  said.  Somehow,  this  slight  gesture  of  the  girl's 
had  seemed  to  bring  them  closer  to  each  other ;  there  was 
an  unpremeditated  touch  of  intimacy  in  the  movement, 
which  it  pleased  him  to  think  of.  This  was  by  no  means 
the  first  time  that  he  had  stood  with  thoughts  busied  about 
her,  but  the  brief  exchange  of  words  and  what  had  followed 
gave  something  of  a  new  complexion  to  his  feelings.  Pre- 
viously he  had  been  interested  in  her ;  her  striking  features 
had  made  him  wonder  what  was  the  history  which  their 
expression  concealed ;  but  her  extreme  reticence  and  the 
timid  coldness  of  her  look  had  left  his  senses  unmoved. 
Now  he  all  at  once  experienced  the  awakening  of  quite  a 
new  interest ;  there  had  been  something  in  her  eyes  as  they 
met  his  which  seemed  to  desire  sympathy ;  he  was  struck 
with  the  possibilities  of  emotion  in  the  face  which  this  one 
look  had  revealed  to  him.  Her  situation  seemed,  when  he 
thought  of  it,  to  affect  him  more  strongly  than  hitherto  ;  he 
felt  that  it  would  be  more  difficult  henceforth  to  maintain 
his  calmness  when  he  saw  her  insulted  by  Mrs.  Tootle  or 
disrespectfully  used  by  the  children. 

Nor  did  the  new  feelings  subside  as  rapidly  as  they  had 
arisen.  At  home  that  night  he  was  unable  to  settle  to  his 
usual  occupations,  and,  as  a  visit  to  his  friends  in  the 
Masters'  Room  would  have  been  equally  distasteful,  he 
rambled  about  the  streets  and  so  tired  himself.  His  duties 
did  not  take  him  up  to  the  children's  classroom  on  the 
following  morning,  but  he  invented  an  excuse  for  going 


THE  WAY  OUT  75 

there,  and  felt  rewarded  by  the  very  faint  smile  and  the 
inclination  of  the  head  with  which  Miss  Enderby  returned 
his  "  good  morning."  Day  after  day,  he  schemed  to  obtain 
an  opportunity  of  speaking  with  her  again,  and  he  fancied 
that  she  herself  helped  to  remove  any  chances  that  might 
have  occurred.  Throughout  his  lessons,  his  attention  re- 
mained fixed  upon  her ;  he  studied  her  face  intently,  and 
was  constantly  discovering  in  it  new  meanings.  When  she 
caught  his  eyes  thus  busy  with  her,  she  evinced,  for  a 
moment,  trouble  and  uneasiness ;  he  felt  sure  that  she 
arranged  her  seat  so  as  to  have  her  back  to  him  more 
frequently  than  she  had  been  accustomed  to  do.  Her  work 
appeared  to  him  to  be  done  with  less  self-forgetfulness  than 
formerly ;  the  rioting  and  impertinence  of  the  children 
seemed  to  trouble  her  more  ;  she  bore  Mrs.  Tootle's  inter- 
ference with  something  like  fear.  Once,  when  Master 
Felix  had  gone  beyond  his  wonted  licence,  in  his  mother's 
absence,  Waymark  went  so  far  as  to  call  him  to  order.  As 
soon  as  he  had  spoken,  the  girl  looked  up  at  him  in  a 
startled  way,  and  seemed  silently  to  beg  him  to  refrain. 
All  this  only  strengthened  the  influence  she  exercised  upon 
Waymark. 

Since  the  climax  of  wretchedness  which  had  resulted  in 
his  advertisement  and  the  forming  of  Julian  Casti's  acquaint- 
ance, a  moderate  cheerfulness  had  possessed  him.  Now  he 
once  more  felt  the  clouds  sinking  about  him,  was  aware  of 
many  a  threatening  portent,  the  meaning  whereof  he  too 
well  understood.  There  had  been  a  week  or  two  of  pre- 
vailing bad  weather,  a  state  of  things  which  always  wrought 
harmfully  upon  him ;  his  thoughts  darkened  under  the 
dark  sky,  and  the  daily  downpour  of  rain  sapped  his 
energies.  It  was  within  a  few  days  of  Easter,  but  the 
prospect  of  a  holiday  had  no  effect  upon  him.  Night  after 
nig]  it  he  lay  in  fever  and  unrest.  He  felt  as  though  some 
voice  were  calling  upon  him  to  undertake  a  vaguely  hazardous 
enterprise  which  yet  he  knew  not  the  nature  of. 

On  one  of  these  evenings,  Mr.  O'Gree  announced  to  him 
that  Miss  Enderby  was  going  to  give  up  her  position  at  the 
end  of  the  quarter.  Philip  had  gathered  this  from  a  conver- 
sation heard  during  the  day  between  Dr.  Tootle  and  his  wife. 

*'  The  light  of  my  life  will  be  gone  out,"  exclaimed  O'Gree, 
"  when  I  am  no  longer  able  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  as  she 
goes  past  the  schoolroom  door.     And  I've  never  even  had 


76  THE  UNCLASSED 

a  chance  of  speaking  to  her.  You  know  the  tale  of  Raleigh 
and  Queen  Elizabeth.  Suppose  I  were  to  rush  out  and 
throw  my  top-coat  on  the  muddy  door-step,  just  as  she's 
going  out ;  d'ye  think  she'd  say  thank  you  ?  " 

"Probably,"  muttered  Waymark,  without  knowing  what 
he  said.  It  was  Mr.  O'Gree's  habit  to  affect  this  violent 
devotion  to  each  new  governess  in  turn,  but  Waymark  did 
not  seem  to  find  the  joke  amusing  at  present. 

"  Bedad,  I'll  do  it  then  !  Or,  rather,  I  would,  if  I'd  two 
top-coats.  Hang  it !  There's  no  behaving  like  a  gentleman 
on  twenty-five  pounds  a  year." 

Waymark  walked  about  the  streets  the  greater  part  of 
the  night,  and  the  next  morning  came  to  school  rather  late. 
Dr.  Tootle  had  to  consult  with  him  about  some  matter  as 
soon  as  he  arrived. 

"You  seem  indisposed,  Mr.  Waymark,"  the  doctor  re- 
marked, when  he  had  in  vain  tried  to  elicit  intelligible 
replies  to  his  questions. 

"  I  am  a  little  out  of  sorts,"  the  other  returned  carelessly. 
"  Perhaps  we  could  talk  about  these  things  to-morrow." 

"  As  you  please,"  said  Dr.  Tootle,  a  little  surprised  at  his 
assistant's  indifference. 

It  was  a  drawing-lesson  morning.  As  he  went  upstairs, 
his  ears  apprised  him  of  the  state  of  things  he  would  find 
in  Miss  Enderby's  room.  The  approach  of  the  Easter  holi- 
days was  making  the  youngsters  even  more  than  usually 
uproarious,  and  their  insubordination  had  passed  beyond  all 
pretence  of  attending  to  tasks.  When  Waymark  entered, 
his  first  glance,  as  always,  was  towards  the  governess.  She 
looked  harassed  and  iU ;  was  in  vain  endeavouring  to  exert 
some  authority  with  her  gentle  voice.  Her  eyes  showed 
unmistakable  gratitude  as  the  teacher  appeared,  for  his 
approach  meant  that  she  would  be  relieved  from  the  three 
elder  children,  Waymark  called  sharply  to  his  pupils  to 
come  and  take  their  places,  but  without  any  attention  on 
their  part.  Master  Felix  openly  urged  the  rest  to  assume  a 
defiant  attitude,  and  began  to  improvise  melodies  on  a  trumpet 
formed  by  roUing  up  a  copy-book. 

"Felix,"  said  Miss  Enderby,  "give  me  your  copy-book 
and  go  to  the  drawing-lesson." 

The  boy  removed  the  trumpet  from  his  mouth,  and,  waving 
it  once  round  his  head,  sent  it  flying  across  the  room  at  the 
speaker;  it  hit  her  on  the  cheek.     In  the  same  minute. 


THE  WAY  OUT  77 

Waymark  had  bent  across  his  knee  a  large  pointer  ■which 
stood  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  and  had  snapped  it  into  two 
pieces.  Holding  the  lighter  of  these  in  one  hand,  with  the 
other  hand  he  suddenly  caught  ISIaster  Felix  by  the  coat- 
collar,  and  in  a  second  had  him  out  of  the  room  and  on  to 
the  landing.  Then  did  the  echoes  of  the  Academy  wake  to 
such  a  bellowing  as  they  had  probably  never  heard  before. 
With  a  grip  impossible  even  to  struggle  against,  Waymark 
held  the  young  imp  under  his  arm,  and  plied  the  broken 
pointer  with  great  vigour ;  the  stripes  were  almost  as  loud 
as  the  roarings.  There  was  a  rush  from  the  rooms  below 
in  the  direction  of  the  disturbance ;  all  the  boys  were  in 
a  trice  leaping  about  delightedly  on  the  stairs,  and  behind 
them  came  O'Gree,  Egger,  and  Dr.  Tootle  himself.  From 
the  room  above  rushed  out  all  the  young  Tootles,  yelling 
for  help.  Last  of  all,  from  still  higher  regions  of  the  house 
there  swept  down  a  vision  of  disordered  female  attire,  dis- 
hevelled hair,  and  glaring  eyes ;  it  was  Mrs.  Tootle,  disturbed 
at  her  toilet,  forgetting  all  considerations  of  personal  appear- 
ance at  the  alarming  outcry.  Just  as  she  reached  the  spot, 
Waymark's  arm  dropped  in  weariness ;  he  flung  the  howling 
young  monkey  into  one  corner,  the  stick  into  another,  and 
deliberately  pulled  his  coat-sleeves  into  position  once  more. 
He  felt  vastly  better  for  the  exercise,  and  there  was  even  a 
smile  on  his  heated  face. 

"  You  brutal  ruffian  ! "  shrieked  Mrs.  Tootle.  "  How  dare 
you  touch  my  child?  You  shall  answer  for  this  in  the 
police  court,  sir." 

"  Waymark,"  cried  her  husband,  who  had  struggled  to 
the  scene  through  the  crowd  of  cheering  boys,  "  what's  the 
iiHMning  of  this  1  You  forget  yourself,  sir.  Who  gave  you 
authority  to  use  corporal  chastisement?" 

"The  boy  has  long  deserved  a  good  thrashing,"  he  said, 
"  and  I'm  glad  I  lost  my  temper  sufficiently  to  give  him  a 
portion  of  his  deserts.  If  you  wish  to  know  the  immediate 
cause,  it  simply  was  that  he  threw  a  book  at  his  governess's 
head  and  hit  her." 

"  Mr.  O'Gree,"  called  out  the  doctor,  "  take  your  boys 
back  to  their  duties,  sir  !  I  am  quite  unable  to  understand 
this  disgraceful  lack  of  discipline.  Every  boy  who  is  not  at 
bis  seat  in  one  minute  will  have  five  hundred  verses  of  the 
I  'salms  to  write  out ! — Mr.  Waymark,  I  shall  be  obliged  to 
you  if  you  will  step  into  my  study." 


78  THE  UNCLASSED 

Five  minutes  after,  Waymark  was  closeted  vdth  Dr. 
Tootle.  The  latter  had  all  at  once  put  off  his  appearance 
of  indignation. 

"  Really,"  he  began,  "  it's  a  great  pity  you  let  yourself  be 
carried  away  like  that.  I  think  it  very  probable  indeed  that 
Felix  deserved  castigation  of  some  kind,  but  you  would  have 
done  much  better  to  report  him  to  me,  you  know,  and  let 
me  see  to  it.  You  have  put  me  in  an  awkard  position.  I 
fear  you  must  make  an  apology  to  Mrs.  Tootle,  and  then 
perhaps  the  matter  can  be  allowed  to  blow  over." 

"  I  think  not,"  replied  Waymark,  whose  mind  was  evi- 
dently made  up.  There  was  a  look  of  recklessness  on  his 
face  which  one  could  at  any  time  have  detected  lurking 
beneath  the  hard  self-control  which  usually  marked  him. 
"  I  don't  feel  disposed  to  apologise,  and  I  am  tired  of  my 
position  here.     I  must  give  it  up." 

Dr.  Tootle  was  annoyed.  It  would  not  be  easy  to  get 
another  teacher  of  the  kind  at  so  cheap  a  rate. 

"  Come,  you  don't  mean  this,"  he  said,  **  You  are  out 
of  temper  for  the  moment.  Perhaps  the  apology  could  be 
dispensed  with ;  I  think  I  may  promise  that  it  can  be. 
The  lad  will  be  no  worse  for  his  little  correction.  Possibly 
we  can  come  to  some  more  satisfactory  arrangements  for. 
the  future " 

"  No,"  interposed  Waymark  ;  "  I  have  quite  made  up  my 
mind.  I  mean  to  give  up  teaching  altogether ;  it  doesn't 
suit  me.  Of  course  I  am  willing  to  come  as  usual  the  next 
two  days." 

"  You  are  aware  that  this  notice  should  have  been  given 
me  at  the  beginning  of  the  quarter  ? "  hinted  the  principal. 

"  Oh  yes.  Of  course  you  will  legally  owe  me  nothing.  I 
am  prepared  for  that." 

"  Well,  I  shall  have  to  consider  it.  But  I  still  think 
that  you " 

*'  As  far  as  I  am  concerned,  the  matter  is  decided.  I  go 
at  Easter." 

"  Very  well.  I  think  you  are  blind  to  your  own  interest, 
but  of  course  you  do  as  you  please.  If  Mrs.  Tootle  should 
press  me  to  take  out  a  summons  against  you  for  assault,  of 
course  I " 

"  Good  morning.  Dr.  Tootle." 

The  summons  was  not  taken  out,  but  Waymark's  resolu- 
tion suffered  no  change.     There  was  another  interview  be- 


BY  THE  WAYSIDE  79 

tween  him  and  the  principal,  from  -which  he  issued  with  the 
sum  of  six  pounds  ten  in  his  pocket,  heing  half  the  quarter's 
salary.  He  had  not  applied  for  this,  but  did  not  refuse  it 
when  it  was  offered.  Seeing  that  the  total  amount  of  cash 
previously  in  his  possession  was  something  less  than  five 
shillings,  he  did  wisely,  perhaps,  to  compromise  with  his 
dignity,  and  let  Dr.  Tootle  come  out  of  the  situation  with 
a  certain  show  of  generosity. 


CHAPTER  XI 

BY    THE    WAYSIDE 

"  So  there  ends  another  chapter.  How  many  more  to  the 
end  of  the  story?  How  many  more  scenes  till  the  farce  is 
played  outl  There  is  sometliing  flattering  to  one's  vanity 
in  this  careless  playing  with  fate ;  it  is  edifying,  more- 
over, to  set  circumstances  at  defiance  in  this  way,  now  and 
then,  to  assert  one's  freedom.  Freedom  !  What  a  joke  the 
word  must  be  to  whoever  is  pulling  the  wires  and  making 
us  poor  puppets  dance  at  his  pleasure.  Pity  that  we  have 
to  pay  the  piper  so  heavily  for  our  involuntary  jigging ! " 

A  passage  from  the  letter  Waymark  wrote  to  his  friend 
Casti,  on  the  evening  when  his  school-work  came  to  an  end. 
That  night  he  sought  rest  early,  and  slept  well.  The  sensa- 
tions with  which  he  woke  next  morning  were  such  as  he 
had  not  experienced  for  a  long  time.  He  was  at  liberty, — 
with  six  pounds  ten  in  his  pocket.  He  could  do  what  he 
liked  and  go  whither  he  liked, — till  lack  of  a  dinner  should 
remind  him  that  a  man's  hardest  master  is  his  own  body. 
He  dressed  leisurely,  and,  having  dressed,  treated  himself  to 
an  egg  for  breakfast.  Absolutely  no  need  for  hurry  ;  the 
thought  of  school-hours  dismissed  for  ever ;  a  horizon  quite 
free  from  the  vision  of  hateful  toil ;  in  the  real  sky  overhead 
a  gleam  of  real  sunshine,  as  if  to  make  credible  this  sudden 
change.  His  mood  was  still  complete  recklessness,  a  revolt 
against  the  idea  of  responsibility,  indifference  to  all  beyond 
the  moment. 

It  was  Thursday ;  the  morrow  would  be  Good  Friday ; 
after  that  the  intervention  of  two  clear  days  before  the  com- 
mencement of  a  new  week.     In  the  meantime  the  sun  was 


8o  THE  UNCLASSED 

really  shinmg,  and  the  fresh  spring  air  invited  to  the  open 
ways.-  Waymark  closed  the  door  of  his  room  behind  him, 
and  went  downstairs,  whistling  to  himself,  lint,  before 
reaching  the  bottom,  he  turned  and  went  back  again.  It 
seemed  warm  enough  to  sit  in  one  of  the  parks  and  read. 
He  laid  his  hand  on  a  book,  almost  at  haphazard,  to  put  in 
his  pocket.  Then  he  walked  very  leisurely  along  Kennington 
Koad,  and  on,  and  on,  till  he  had  crossed  the  river. 

Wondering  in  which  direction  he  should  next  turn,  he 
suddenly  found  himself  repeating,  with  unaccountable  tran- 
sition of  thought,  the  words  "  South  Bank,  Regent's  Park." 
In  all  likelihood,  he  said  to  himself  presently,  they  were 
suggested  by  some  inscription  on  a  passing  omnibus,  noted 
unconsciously.  The  address  was  that  he  had  read  in  Miss 
Enderby's  note-book.  Why  not  ramble  in  that  direction  as 
well  as  another,  and  amuse  himself  by  guessing  which  house 
it  was  that  the  governess  lived  in  ?  He  had  not  seen  her 
since  the  uproar  which  had  terminated  his  connection  with 
the  young  Tootles.  Was  it  true  that  she  had  then  already 
decided  to  give  up  her  position?  If  not,  his  outbreak  of 
temper  had  doubtless  resulted  unpleasantly  for  her,  seeing 
that  Mrs.  Tootle  would  almost  certainly  dismiss  her  out  of 
mere  spite.  Several  times  during  the  last  two  days  he  had 
thought  of  conveying  to  her  a  note  by  some  means,  to  ex- 
press in  some  way  or  other  this  fear,  and  the  regret  it  caused 
him;  the  real  motive,  he  knew  well  enough,  would  be  a 
hope  of  receiving  a  reply  from  her.  But  now  she  had  per- 
haps left  the  school,  and  he  did  not  know  her  exact  address. 
He  made  his  way  across  the  Park  in  the  direction  of  St. 
John's  Wood,  and  had  soon  reached  South  Bank. 

He  had  walked  once  the  length  of  the  road,  and  was 
looking  at  the  nearest  houses  before  he  turned,  when  a 
lady  came  round  the  corner  and  paused  to  avoid  him,  as  he 
stood  in  the  middle  of  the  pavement.  It  was  Miss  Enderby 
herself.  Her  embarrassment  was  apparently  not  as  great  as 
his  own.  She  smiled  with  friendliness ;  seemed  indeed  in 
a  happier  frame  of  mind  than  any  in  which  Waymark  had 
as  yet  seen  her.  But  she  did  not  offer  her  hand,  and  the 
other,  having  raised  his  hat,  was  almost  on  the  point  of 
passing  on,  when  he  overcame  his  diffidence  and  spoke. 

"  I  came  here  to  try  and  discover  where  you  lived,  Miss 
Enderby." 

There  was  something  grotesque  in  this  abruptness;  his 


BY  THE  WAYSIDE  8l 

tone  only  saved  it  from  impertinence.     The  girl  looked  at 
}um  with  frank  surprise. 

"Pray  don't  misunderstand  me,"  he  went  on  hurriedly. 
"  I  wished,  if  possible,  to — well,  to  tell  you  that  I  feared  I 
acted  thoughtlessly  the  other  day ;  without  regard,  I  mean, 
to  any  consequences  it  might  have  for  yourself." 

"Rather  I  ought  to  thank  you  for  defending  me.  It 
made  no  difference  in  the  way  you  mean.  It  had  already 
been  decided  that  I  should  leave.    I  did  not  suit  Mrs.  Tootle." 

It  was  very  pleasant  to  look  down  into  her  earnest  face, 
and  watch  it  as  she  spoke  in  this  unrestrained  way.  She 
seemed  so  slight  and  frail,  evidently  thought  so  deprecia- 
tingly of  herself,  looked  as  though  her  life  had  in  it  so 
little  joy,  that  Way  mark  had  speedily  assumed  a  confident 
attitude,  and  gazed  at  her  as  a  man  does  at  one  whom  he 
would  gladly  guard  and  cherish. 

"You  were  certainly  unsuited  for  the  work,  in  every 
way,"  he  said,  with  a  smile.  "Your  efforts  were  quite 
wasted  there.     Still,  I  am  sorry  you  have  left." 

"  I  am  going  into  a  family,"  were  her  next  words,  spoken 
almost  cheerfully.  "It  is  in  the  country,  in  Essex.  There 
are  only  two  children,  quite  young.  I  think  I  shall  succeed 
better  with  them  ;  I  hope  so." 

"Then  I  suppose,"  Waymark  said,  moving  a  little  and 
keeping  his  eyes  fixed  on  her  with  an  uneasy  look,  "  I  shall 
— I  must  say  good-bye  to  you,  for  the  last  time  1 " 

A  scarcely  heard  "  yes  "  fell  from  her  lips.  Her  eyes 
were  cast  down. 

"  I  am  going  to  make  a  bold  request,"  Waymark  exclaimed, 
with  a  sort  of  recklessness,  though  his  voice  expressed  no 
less  respect  than,  hitherto.  "  Will  you  tell  me  where  you 
are  going  to  1 " 

She  told  him,  without  looking  up,  and  with  a  recurrence 
to  the  timid  manner  which  had  marked  her  in  the  school- 
room. This  gave  Waymark  encouragement ;  his  confidence 
grew  as  hers  diminished. 

"Will  you  let  me  write  to  you — occasionally?  Would 
you  let  me  keep  up  our  acquaintance  in  this  way, — so  that, 
if  you  return  to  London,  I  might  look  forward  to  meeting 
you  again  some  time  1 " 

The  girl  answered  timidly — 

*'  I  shall  be  glad  to  keep  up  o<ir  acquaintance.  I  shall  be 
glad  to  hear  from  you.'' 

V 


83  THE  UNCLASSED 

Then,  at  once  feeling  that  she  had  gone  too  far,  her  con- 
fusion made  her  pale.  Waymark  held  out  his  hand,  as  if 
to  take  leave. 

"  Thank  you  very  much,"  he  said  warmly.  "  1  am  very 
grateful" 

She  gave  him  a  quick  "good-bye,"  and  then  passed  on. 
Waymark  moved  at  once  in  the  opposite  direction,  turning 
the  corner.  Then  he  wished  to  go  back  and  notice  which 
house  she  entered,  but  would  not  do  so  lest  she  should 
observe  him.     He  walked  straight  forwards. 

How  the  aspect  of  the  world  had  changed  for  him  in 
these  few  minutes ;  what  an  incredible  revolution  had  come 
to  pass  in  his  own  desires  and  purposes !  The  intellectual 
atmosphere  he  breathed  was  of  his  own  creation  ;  the  society 
of  cultured  people  he  bad  never  had  an  opportunity  of  en- 
joying. A  refined  and  virtuous  woman  had  hitherto  existed 
for  him  merely  in  the  sanctuary  of  his  imagination  ;  he  had 
known  not  one  such.  If  he  passed  one  in  the  street,  the 
effect  of  the  momentary  proximity  was  only  to  embitter  his 
thoughts,  by  reminding  him  of  the  hopeless  gulf  fixed 
between  his  world  and  that  in  which  such  creatures  had 
their  being.  In  revenge,  he  tried  to  soil  the  purity  of  his 
ideals ;  would  have  persuaded  himself  that  the  difference 
between  the  two  spheres  was  merely  in  externals,  that  he 
was  imposed  upon  by  wealth,  education,  and  superficial 
refinement  of  manners.  Happily  he  had  never  really  suc- 
ceeded in  thus  deceiving  himself,  and  the  effort  had  only 
served  to  aggravate  his  miseries.  The  habit  of  mind,  how- 
ever, had  shown  itself  in  the  earlier  stages  of  his  acquaintance 
with  Miss  Enderby.  The  first  sight  of  her  had  moved  him 
somewhat,  but  scarcely  with  any  foreshadowing  of  serious 
emotion.  He  felt  that  she  was  different  from  any  woman 
with  whom  he  had  ever  stood  on  an  equal  footing ;  but,  at 
the  same  time,  the  very  possibility  of  establishing  more  or 
less  intimate  relations  with  her  made  him  distrustful  of  his 
judgment.  In  spite  of  himself,  he  tried  to  disparage  her 
qualities.  She  was  pretty,  he  admitted,  but  then  of  such  a 
feeble,  characterless  type ;  doubtless  her  understanding  cor- 
responded with  the  weakness  of  her  outward  appearance. 
None  the  less,  he  had  continued  to  observe  her  keenly,  and 
had  noted  with  pleasure  every  circumstance  which  contra- 
dicted his  wilful  depreciation  of  her.  His  state  of  mind 
after  the  thrashing   he   gave   to   young  Tootle   had   been 


BY  THE  WAYSIDE  83 

characteristic.  What  had  been  the  cause  of  his  violence  1 
Certainly  not  uncontrollable  anger,  for  he  had  in  reality 
been  perfectly  cool  throughout  the  affair  ;  simply,  then,  the 
pleasure  of  avenging  Miss  Enderby.  And  for  this  he  had 
sacrificed  his  place,  and  left  himself  without  resources.  He 
had  acted  absurdly ;  certainly  would  not  have  repeated  the 
absurdity  had  the  scene  been  to  act  over  again.  This  was 
not  the  attitude  of  one  in  love,  and  he  knew  it.  Moreover, 
though  he  had  thought  of  writing  to  her,  it  would  in  reality 
have  cost  him  nothing  if  she  had  forthwith  passed  out  of  his 
sight  and  knowledge.  Now  how  all  this  had  been  altered, 
by  a  mere  chance  meeting.  The  doubts  had  left  him ;  she 
was  indeed  the  being  from  a  higher  world  that  he  would 
have  like  J  to  believe  her  from  the  first ;  the  mysterious  note 
of  true  sympathy  had  been  struck  in  that  short  exchange  of 
words  and  looks,  and,  though  they  had  taken  leave  of  each 
other  for  who  could  say  how  long,  mutual  knowledge  was 
just  beginning,  real  intercourse  about  to  be  established  be- 
tween them.  He  might  write  to  her,  and  of  course  she 
would  reply. 

He  walked  without  much  perception  of  time  or  distance, 
and  found  himself  at  home  just  before  nightfall.  He  felt 
disposed  for  a  quiet  evening,  to  be  spent  in  the  companion- 
ship of  his  thoughts.  But  when  he  had  made  his  coifee  and 
eaten  with  appetite  after  the  day's  rambling,  restlessness 
again  possessed  him.  After  all,  it  was  not  retirement  that 
he  needed  ;  these  strange  new  imaginings  would  consort  best 
with  motion  and  the  liveliness  of  the  streets.  So  he  put 
out  his  lamp,  and  once  more  set  forth.  The  night  air  fresh- 
ened his  spirits ;  he  sang  to  himself  as  he  went  along.  It 
was  long  since  he  had  been  to  a  theatre,  and  just  now  he 
was  so  hopelessly  poor  that  he  could  really  afford  a  little 
extravagance.  So  he  was  soon  sitting  before  the  well-known 
drop  of  a  favourite  play-house,  as  full  of  light-hearted 
expectancy  as  a  boy  who  is  enjoying  a  holiday.  The  even- 
ing was  delightful,  and  passed  all  too  quickly. 

The  play  over,  he  was  in  no  mood  to  go  straight  home. 
He  lit  a  cigar  and  drifted  with  the  current  westward,  out  of 
the  Strand  and  into  Pall  Mall.  A  dispute  between  a  cab- 
driver  and  his  fare  induced  him  to  pause  for  a  moment 
under  the  colonnade,  and,  when  the  little  cluster  of  people 
had  moved  on,  he  still  stood  leaning  against  one  of  the 
pillars,  enjoying  the  mild  air  and  the  scent  of  his  cigar.     He 


84  THE  UNCLASSED 

felt  his  elbow  touched,  and,  looking  round  with  indifference, 
met  the  kind  of  greeting  for  which  he  was  prepared.  He 
shook  his  head  and  did  not  reply  ;  then  the  sham  gaiety  of 
the  voice  all  at  once  turned  to  a  very  real  misery,  and  the 
girl  began  to  beg  instead  of  trying  to  entice  him  in  the 
ordinary  way.  He  looked  at  her  again,  and  was  shocked 
at  the  ghastly  wretchedness  of  her  daubed  face.  She  was 
ill,  she  said,  and  could  scarcely  walk  about,  but  must  get 
money  somehow;  if  she  didn't,  her  landlady  wouldn't  let 
her  sleep  in  the  house  again,  and  she  had  nowhere  else  to 
go  to.  There  could  be  no  mistake  about  the  genuineness  of 
her  story,  at  all  events  as  far  as  bodily  suffering  went. 
Waymark  contrasted  her  state  with  his  own,  and  took  out 
what  money  he  had  in  his  pocket ;  it  was  the  change  out  of 
a  sovereign  which  he  had  received  at  the  theatre,  and  he 
gave  her  it  all.     She  stared,  and  did  not  understand. 

"  Are  you  coming  with  me  1 "  she  asked,  feeling  obliged 
to  make  a  hideous  attempt  at  professional  coaxing  in  return 
for  such  generosity. 

"  Good  God,  no  ! "  Waymark  exclaimed.  *'  Go  home  and 
take  care  of  yourself." 

She  thanked  him  warmly,  and  turned  away  at  once.  As 
his  eye  followed  her,  he  was  aware  that  somebody  else  had 
drawn  near  to  him  from  behind.  This  also  was  a  girl,  but 
of  a  different  kind.  She  was  well  dressed,  and  of  graceful, 
rounded  form ;  a  veil  almost  hid  her  face,  but  enough  could 
be  seen  to  prove  that  she  had  good  looks. 

"  That  a  friend  of  yours  1 "  she  asked  abruptly,  and  her 
voice  was  remarkably  full,  clear,  and  sweet. 

Waymark  answered  with  a  negative,  looking  closely 
at  her. 

"  Then  why  did  you  give  her  all  that  money  1" 

"  How  do  you  know  what  I  gave  her  ?  " 

"I  was  standing  just  behind  here,  and  could  see." 

"WelH" 

"  Nothing ;  only  I  should  think  you  are  one  out  of  a 
thousand.  You  saved  me  a  sovereign,  too ;  I've  watched 
her  begging  of  nearly  a  dozen  people,  and  I  couldn't  have 
stood  it  much  longer." 

"  You  would  have  given  her  a  sovereign  I " 

"  I  meant  to,  if  she'd  failed  with  you." 

"  Is  she  a  friend  of  yours  ?  " 

"  Kever  saw  her  before  to-night." 


BY  THE  WAYSIDE  85 

"  Then  you  must  be  one  out  of  a  thousand." 

The  girl  laughed  merrily. 

"In  that  case,"  she  said,  "we  ought  to  know  each  other, 
shouldn't  we  T " 

"If  we  began  by  thinking  so  well  of  each  other,"  re- 
turned Waymark,  smiling,  "  we  should  not  improbably  suffer 
a  grievous  disappointment  before  long." 

"  Well,  you  might.  You  have  to  take  my  generosity  on 
trust,  but  I  have  proof  of  yours." 

"  You're  an  original  sort  of  girl,"  said  Waymark,  throwing 
away  the  end  of  his  cigar.  "  Do  you  talk  to  everybody  in 
this  way?" 

"Pooh,  of  course  not.  I  shouldn't  be  worth  much  if  I 
couldn't  suit  my  conversation  to  the  man  I  want  to  make 
a  fool  of.  Would  you  rather  have  me  talk  in  the  usual 
way  ?     Shall  I  say " 

"  I  had  rather  not." 

"WeU,  I  knew  that." 

"And  how?" 

"  Well,  you  don't  wear  a  veil,  if  I  do." 

"  You  can  read  faces  ? " 

•'  A  little,  I  flatter  myself.     Can  you  ?  " 

"Give  me  a  chance  of  trying." 

She  raised  her  veil,  and  he  inspected  her  for  some  moments, 
then  looked  away. 

"Excellently  well,  if  God  did  all,"  he  observed,  with  a 
smile. 

"  That's  out  of  a  play,"  she  replied  quickly.  "  I  heard  it 
a  little  time  ago,  but  I  forget  the  answer.  I'd  have  given 
anything  to  be  able  to  cap  you !  Then  you'd  have  put  me 
down  for  a  clever  woman,  and  I  should  have  lived  on  the 
reputation  henceforth  and  for  ever.  But  it's  all  my  own, 
indeed  ;  I'm  not  afraid  of  crying." 

"  Do  you  ever  cry  ?     I  can't  easily  imagine  it." 

"  Oh  yes,  sometimes,"  she  answered,  sighing,  and  at  the 
same  time  lowering  her  veil  again.  "  But  you  haven't  read 
my  face  for  me." 

"  It's  a  face  I'm  sorry  to  have  seen." 

"  Why  ? "  she  asked,  holding  her  hands  clasped  before  her, 
the  palms  turned  outwards. 

"  I  shall  think  of  it  often  after  to-night,  and  imagine  it 
with  all  its  freshness  gone,  and  marks  of  suffering  and 
degradation  upon  it." 


86  THE  UNCLASSED 

"  Suffering,  perhaps ;  degradation,  no.  Why  should  I  be 
degraded  1 " 

"You  can't  help  yourself.  The  life  you  have  chosen 
brings  its  inevitable  consequences." 

"  Chosen  !  "  she  repeated,  with  an  indignant  face.  "  How 
do  you  know  I  had  any  choice  in  the  matter  1  You  have  no 
ri,!L;ht  to  speak  contemptuously,  like  that." 

"  Perhaps  not.  Certainly  not.  I  should  have  said — the 
life  you  are  evidently  leading." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  that  it  makes  so  much  difference. 
I  suppose  everybody  has  a  choice  at  all  events  between 
life  and  death,  and  you  mean  that  I  ought  to  have  killed 
myself  rather  than  come  to  this.  That's  my  own  business, 
however,  and " 

A  man  had  just  passed  behind  them,  and,  catching  the 
sound  of  the  girl's  voice,  had  turned  suddenly  to  look  at 
her.  She,  at  the  same  moment,  looked  towards  him,  and 
stopped  all  at  once  in  her  speech. 

"  Are  you  walking  up  Regent  Street  1 "  she  asked  Way- 
mark,  in  quite  a  different  voice.  "  Give  me  your  arm, 
will  you  ? " 

Waymark  complied,  and  they  walked  together  in  the 
direction  she  suggested. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you?"  he  asked.  "  Why  are 
you  trembling  ? " 

"  Don't  look  round.  It's  that  fellow  behind  us ;  I  know 
he  is  following." 

"  Somebody  you  know  1 " 

"  Yes,  and  hate.  Worse  than  that,  I'm  afraid  of  him. 
Will  you  keep  with  me  till  he's  gone  ? " 

"  Of  course  I  will.     What  harm  can  he  do  you  though  1 " 

"  None  that  I  know  of.  It's  a  strange  stupid  feeling  I 
have.     I  can't  bear  the  sight  of  him.     Don't  look  round  ! " 

"  Has  he  been  a — a  friend  of  yours  ?  " 

"No,  no;  not  in  that  way.  But  he  follows  me  about. 
He'll  drive  me  out  of  London,  I  know." 

They  had  reached  Piccadilly  Circus. 

"  Look  back  now,"  she  said,  "  and  see  if  he's  following  still." 

Waymark  turned  his  head ;  the  man  was  at  a  little  dis- 
tance behind.  He  stopped  when  he  saw  himself  observed, 
and  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  pavement,  tapping  his  boot 
with  his  cane.  He  was  a  tall  and  rather  burly  fellow,  well 
dressed,  with  a  clean-shaven  face. 


BY  THE  WAYSIDE  87 

"Let's  make  haste  round  the  corner,"  the  girl  said,  "and 
get  into  the  restaurant.  You  must  have  some  supper 
with  me." 

"I  should  be  very  happy,  had  I  a  penny  in  my  pocket." 

"  See  how  easily  good  deeds  are  forgotten,"  returned  the 
other,  laughing  in  the  old  way.  "  Now  comes  my  turn  to 
give  proof  of  generosity.  Come  and  have  some  supper  all 
the  same." 

"  No ;  that's  out  of  the  question." 

"  Fiddlestick  !  Surely  you  won't  desert  me  when  I  ask 
your  protection?  Come  along,  and  pay  me  back  another 
time,  if  you  like." 

They  walked  round  the  corner,  then  the  girl  started  and 
ran  at  her  full  speed.  Waymark  followed  in  the  same  way, 
somewhat  oppressed  by  a  sense  of  ridiculousness.  They 
reached  the  shelter  of  the  restaurant,  and  the  girl  led  the 
way  upstairs,  laughing  immoderately. 

Supper  was  served  to  them,  and  honoured  with  due  atten- 
tion by  both.  Waymark  had  leisure  to  observe  his  com- 
panion's face  in  clearer  light.  It  was  beautiful,  and,  better 
still,  full  of  character. 

He  presently  bent  forward  to  her,  and  spoke  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Isn't  this  the  man  who  followed  us  just  coming  in  now  ? 
Look,  he  has  gone  to  the  table  on  the  right." 

She  looked  round  hastily,  and  shuddered,  for  she  had 
met  the  man's  eyes. 

"Why  did  you  teU  meV  she  exclaimed  impatiently. 
"Now  I  can't  finish  my  supper.  Wait  till  he  has  given 
his  order,  and  then  we  will  go." 

Waymark  examined  this  mysterious  persecutor.  In  truth, 
the  countenance  was  no  good  one,  and  a  woman  might  well 
dislike  to  have  such  eyes  turned  upon  her.  It  was  a  strong 
face ;  coarse  originally,  and,  in  addition  to  the  faults  of 
nature,  it  now  bore  the  plainest  traces  of  hard  living.  As 
soon  as  he  perceived  Waymark  and  his  companion,  he  fixed 
them  with  his  eyes,  and  .'scarcely  looked  away  as  long  as  they 
remained  in  the  room.  The  girl  seemed  shrinking  under  this 
gaze,  though  she  sat  almost  with  her  back  to  him.  She 
ceased  talking,  and,  as  soon  as  she  saw  that  Waymark  had 
finished,  made  a  sign  to  him  to  pay  quickly  (with  a  sovereign 
she  pushed  across  the  table)  and  let  them  be  gone.  They 
rose,  accordingly,  and  left.  The  man  watched  them,  but 
remained  seated. 


88  THE  UNCLASSED 

"  Are  you  in  a  hurry  to  get  home  ? "  the  girl  asked,  w'hen 
they  were  in  the  street  again. 

"  No ;  time  is  of  no  consequence  to  me." 

"DoyouHvefar  oflfl" 

" In  Kennington.     And  you?" 

"If  you  like,  I'll  show  you.  Let  us  walk  quickly.  I 
feel  rather  cold." 

She  led  the  way  into  the  Strand.  At  no  great  distance 
from  Temple  Bar  she  turned  off  into  a  small  court. 

"  This  is  a  queer  place  to  live  in,"  observed  Waymark,  as 
he  looked  up  at  the  dark  houses. 

"Don't  be  afraid,"  was  the  good-humoured  reply,  as  she 
opened  the  door  with  a  latch-key.  They  went  up -two 
flights  of  stairs,  then  entered  a  room  where  a  bright  fire  was 
burning.  Waymark's  conductor  held  a  piece  of  paper  to  the 
flame,  and  lit  a  lamp.  It.  was  a  small,  pleasantly  furnished 
sitting-room. 

"Do  you  play?"  Waymark  asked,  seeing  an  open  piano, 
with  music  upon  it. 

"  I  only  wish  I  could.  My  landlady's  daughter  is  giving 
me  lessons.  But  I  think  I'm  getting  on.  Listen  to  me  do 
this  exercise." 

She  sat  down,  and,  with  much  conscientious  effort,  went 
over  some  simple  bars.  Then  she  looked  up  at  her  com- 
panion and  caught  him  smiling. 

'•  Well,"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  pet,  "  you  must  begin  at  the 
beginning  in  everything,  mustn't  you?  Come  and  let  me 
hear  what  you  can  do." 

"Not  even  so  much." 

"Then  don't  laugh  at  a  poor  girl  doing  her  best.  You 
have  such  a  queer  smile  too ;  it  seems  both  ill-natured  and 
good-natured  at  the  same  time.  Now  wait  a  minute  till  I 
come  back." 

She  went  into  an  inner  room,  and  closed  the  door  behind 
her.  In  five  minutes  it  opened  again.  She  appeared  in  a 
dressing- gown  and  with  her  feet  in  slippers.  Her  fine  hair 
fell  heavily  about  her  shoulders ;  in  her  arms  she  held  a 
beautiful  black  cat,  with  white  throat  and  paws. 

"This  is  my  child.  Don't  you  admire  him?  Shake 
hands,  Grim." 

"Why  Grim?" 

"  It's  short  for  Grimalkin,  the  name  of  a  cat  in  a  book  of 
fairy  tales  I  used  to  be  fond  of  reading.     Don't  you  think 


"Don't  you  admire  him?" — Page.  SS 


BY  THE  WAYSIDE  89 

he's  got  a  beautiful  face,  and  a  good  deal  more  intelligent 
than  some  people  we  could  mention  1  I  picked  him  up  on 
our  door-step,  two  months  ago.  Oh,  you  never  saw  such  a 
wretched  little  object,  dripping  with  rain,  and  with  such  a 
poor  starved  little  face,  and  bones  almost  coming  through 
the  skin.  He  looked  up  at  me,  and  begged  me  as  plain  as 
plain  could  be  to  have  pity  on  him  and  help  him ;  didn't 
you,  Grimmy?  And  so  I  brought  him  upstairs,  and  made 
him  comfortable,  and  now  we  shall  never  part. — Do  you 
like  animals?" 

"  Yes." 

The  door  of  the  room  suddenly  opened,  and  there  sprang 
in  a  fresh-coloured  young  girl  in  hat  and  jacket,  short, 
plump,  pretty,  and  looking  about  seventeen.  She  started 
back  on  seeing  that  the  room  was  occupied. 

"What  is  it,  Sally?"  asked  Grim's  mistress,  with  a  good- 
natured  laugh. 

"  Why,  Mrs.  Walter  told  me  you  wasn't  in  yet ;  I'm 
awful  sorry,  I  beg  your  pardon." 

She  spoke  with  a  strong  south-west-country  accent. 

"  Do  you  want  me  ? " 

"It's  only  for  Grim,"  returned  Sally,  showing  something 
which  she  held  wrapped  up  in  paper.  "  I'd  brought  un  home 
a  bit  o'  fish,  a  nice  bit  without  bone ;  it'll  just  suit  he." 

"  Then  come  and  give  it  he,"  said  the  other,  with  a  merry 
glance  at  Waymark.  "  But  he  mustn't  make  a  mess  on  the 
hearthrug." 

"  Oh,  trust  un  for  that,"  cried  Sally.  "  He  won't  pull  it 
off  the  paper." 

Grim  was  accordingly  provided  with  his  supper,  and  Sally 
ran  away  with  a  "good-night." 

"Who's  that?"  Waymark  asked.  "Where  on  earth 
does  she  come  from  ? " 

"  She's  from  Weymouth.  They  talk  queerly  there,  don't 
they  ?  She  lives  in  the  house,  and  goes  to  business.  Sally 
and  I  are  great  friends." 

"  Do  you  come  from  the  country  ? "  Waymark  inquired, 
as  she  sat  down  in  an  easy-chair  and  watched  the  cat 
eating. 

"  No,  I'm  a  London  pirl.  I've  never  been  out  of  the 
town  since  I  was  a  httle  child." 

"  And  how  old  are  you  now  ?  " 

"Guess." 


90  THE  UNCLASSED 

"Not  twenty." 

"  Eighteen  a  month  ago.     All  my  life  before  me,  isn't  itt" 

Waymark  kept  silence  for  a  moment. 

"How  do  you  like  my  room?"  she  asked  suddenly,  look- 
ing round. 

"  It's  very  comfortable.  I  always  thought  there  were 
nothing  but  business  places  all  about  here.  I  should  rather 
like  to  live  in  the  very  middle  of  the  town,  like  this." 

"Should  you?  That's  just  what  I  like.  Oh,  how  I 
enjoy  the  noise  and  the  crowds  !  I  should  be  ill  if  I  had  to 
live  in  one  of  those  long,  dismal  streets,  where  the  houses 
are  all  the  same  shape,  and  costermongers  go  bawling  about 
all  day  long.     I  suppose  you  live  in  a  place  like  that  ] " 

"Very  much  the  same." 

In  taking  his  handkerchief  out,  "Waymark  just  happened 
to  feel  a  book  in  his  overcoat-pocket.  He  drew  it  forth  to 
see  what  it  was,  having  forgotten  entirely  that  he  had  been 
carrying  the  volume  about  with  him  since  morning. 

"  What's  that  1 "  asked  the  girl  "  Will  you  let  me  look  ? 
Is  it  a  tale  ?     Lend  it  me  ;  will  you  1 " 

"  Do  you  read  books  ?  " 

"Oh  yes;  why  not?  Let  me  keep  this  till  you  come 
again.  Is  this  your  name  written  here — Osmond  Way- 
mark?" 

"  Yes.     And  what  is  your  name  ? " 

"  Ida  Starr." 

"  Ida  ?  That's  a  beautiful  name.  I  was  almost  afraid  to 
ask  you,  for  fear  it  should  be  something  common." 

"And  why  shouldn't  I  have  a  common  name?" 

"Because  you  are  by  no  means  a  common  girl." 

"You  think  not?  Well,  perhaps  you  are  right.  But 
may  I  keep  the  book  till  I  see  you  again  ? " 

"  I  had  better  give  it  you,  for  it  isn't  very  likely  you  will 
see  me  again." 

"Why  not?" 

"  My  acquaintance  would  be  anything  but  profitable  to 
you.     I  often  haven't  enough  money  to  live  on,  and " 

Ida  stooped  down  and  played  for  a  few  moments  with 
Grim,  who  turned  over  lazily  on  to  his  back,  and  stroked 
his  mistress's  hands  delicately  with  his  soft  white  paws. 

"  But  you  are  a  gentleman,"  she  said,  rising  again,  and 
rustling  over  the  pages  of  the  book  she  still  held.  "  Are 
you  in  the  city  ? " 


BY  THE  WAYSIDE  91 

"  The  Lord  deliver  me  ! " 

"What  then?" 

"I  am  nothing." 

"Then  you  must  be  rich." 

"  It  by  no  means  follows.  Yesterday  I  was  a  teacher  in 
a  school.     To-day  I  am  what  is  called  out  of  work." 

"  A  teacher.     But  I  suppose  you'll  get  another  place." 

"  Ko.  I've  given  it  up  because  I  couldn't  endure  it  any 
longer." 

"  And  how  are  you  going  to  live  1 " 

"I  have  no  idea." 

"Then  you  must  have  been  very  foolish  to  give  away 
your  money  like  that  to-night." 

"  I  don't  pretend  to  much  wisdom.  If  I  had  had  another 
sovereign  in  my  pocket,  no  doubt  I  should  have  given  it 
you  before  this,  and  you  wouldn't  have  refused  it." 

"  How  do  you  know  1 "  she  asked  sharply.  "  Why  should 
you  think  me  selfish  1 " 

"Certainly  I  have  no  reason  to.  And  by  the  by,  I 
already  owe  you  money  for  the  supper.  I  wiU  send  it  you 
to-morrow." 

"Why  not  bring  it?" 

"Better  not.  I  have  a  good  deal  of  an  unpleasant 
quality  which  people  call  pride,  and  I  don't  care  to  make 
myself  uncomfortable  unnecessarily." 

"You  can't  have  more  pride  than  I  have.  Look."  She 
held  out  her  hands.  "Will  you  be  my  friend,  really  my 
friend  1     You  understand  me  1 " 

"  I  think  I  understand,  but  I  doubt  whether  it  is  possible." 

"Everything  is  possible.  Will  you  shake  hands  with 
me,  and,  when  you  come  to  see  me  again,  let  us  meet  as  if  I 
were  a  modest  girl,  and  you  had  got  to  know  me  in  a 
respectable  house,  and  not  in  the  street  at  midnight  ? " 

"  You  really  wish  it  ?     You  are  not  joking  ? " 

"I  am  in  sober  earnest,  and  I  wish  it.  You  won't 
refuse  1 " 

"  If  I  did  I  should  refuse  a  great  happiness." 

He  took  her  hand  and  again  released  it. 

"  And  now  look  at  the  time,"  said  she,  pointing  to  a 
clock  on  the  mantelpiece.  "  Half-past  one.  How  will  you 
get  home  ? " 

"  Walk.  It  won't  take  me  more  than  an  hour.  May  I 
light  my  pipe  before  I  start  1 " 


92  THE  UNCLASSED 

"  Of  course  you  may.     When  shall  I  see  you  again  1 

"  Shall  we  say  this  night  next  week  ? " 

"  Very  well.  Come  here  any  time  you  like  in  the 
evening.  I  will  be  at  home  after  six.  And  then  I  can 
give  you  your  book  back." 

Waymark  lit  his  pipe,  stooped  to  give  Grim  a  stroke,  and 
buttoned  up  his  coat.  Ida  led  the  way  downstairs.  They 
shook  hands  again,  and  parted. 


CHAPTEE  XII 

RENT  DAY 

It  was  much  after  his  usual  hour  when  Waymark  awoke 
on  Good  Friday  morning.  He  had  been  troubled  through- 
out the  niglit  with  a  strangely  vivid  dream,  which  seemed 
to  have  repeated  itself  several  times ;  when  he  at  length 
started  into  consciousness  the  anguish  of  the  vision  was 
still  upon  him. 

He  rose  at  once,  and  dressed  quickly,  doing  his  best  to 
shake  off  the  clinging  misery  of  sleep.  In  a  little  while  it 
had  passed,  and  he  tried  to  go  over  in  his  mind  the  events 
of  the  preceding  day.  Were  they,  too,  only  fragments  of  a 
long  dream  ?  Surely  so  many  and  strange  events  could  not 
have  crowded  themselves  into  one  period  of  twelve  hours; 
and  for  him,  whose  days  passed  with  such  dreary  monotony. 
The  interview  with  Maud  Enderby  seemed  so  unnaturally 
long  ago;  that  with  Ida  Starr,  so  impossibly  fresh  and 
recent.  Yet  both  had  undoubtedly  taken  place.  He,  who 
but  yesterday  morning  had  felt  so  bitterly  his  loneliness  in 
the  world,  and,  above  all,  the  impossibility  of  what  he  most 
Icmged  for — woman's  companionship — found  himself  all  at 
once  on  terms  of  at  least  friendly  intimacy  with  two  women, 
both  young,  both  beautiful,  yet  so  wholly  different.  Each 
answered  to  an  ideal  which  he  cherished,  and  the  two 
ideals  were  so  diverse,  so  mutually  exclusive.  The  ex- 
perience had  left  him  in  a  curious  frame  of  mind.  For  the 
present,  he  felt  cool,  almost  indifferent,  to  both  his  new 
acquaintances.  He  had  asked  and  obtained  leave  to  write 
to  Maud  Enderby;  what  on  earth  could  he  write  about? 
How  could  he  address  her?     He  had  promised  to  go  and 


RENT  DAY  93 

see  Ida  Starr,  on  a  most  impracticable  footing.  Was  it  not 
almost  certain  that,  before  the  day  came  round,  her  caprice 
would  have  vanished,  and  his  reception  would  prove  any- 
thing but  a  flattering  one  ?  The  feelings  which  both  girls 
had  at  the  time  excited  in  him  seemed  artificial ;  in  his 
present  mood  he  in  vain  tried  to  resuscitate  his  interest 
either  in  the  one  or  the  other.  It  was  as  though  he  had 
over-exerted  his  emotional  powers,  and  they  lay  exhausted. 
Weariness  was  the  only  reality  of  which  he  was  conscious. 
He  must  turn  his  mind  to  other  things.  Having  break- 
fasted, he  remembered  what  day  it  was,  and  presently  took 
down  a  volume  of  his  Goethe,  opening  at  the  Easter  morn- 
ing scene  in  Faust,  favourite  reading  with  him.  This  in- 
spired him  with  a  desire  to  go  into  the  open  air ;  it  was  a 
bright  day,  and  there  would  be  life  in  the  streets.  Just  as 
he  began  to  prepare  himself  for  walking,  there  came  a 
knock  at  his  door,  and  Julian  Casti  entered. 

"  Halloa !  "  Waymark  cried.  "  I  thought  you  told  me 
you  were  engaged  with  your  cousin  to-day." 

"  I  was,  but  I  sent  her  a  note  yesterday  to  say  I  was 
unable  to  meet  her." 

"  Then  why  didn't  you  write  at  the  same  time  and  tell 
me  you  were  coming  1     I  might  have  gone  out  for  the  day." 

"  I  had  no  intention  of  coming  then." 

"  What's  the  matter?     You  look  out  of  sorts." 

"  I  don't  feel  in  very  good  spirits.  By  the  by,  I  heard 
from  the  publishers  yesterday.     Here's  the  note." 

It  simply  stated  that  Messrs.  So-and-so  had  given  their 
best  attention  to  the  play  of  "Stilicho,"  which  Mr.  Casti 
had  been  so  good  as  to  submit  to  them,  and  regretted  their 
inability  to  make  any  proposal  for  its  publication,  seeing 
that  its  subject  was  hardly  likely  to  excite  popular  interest. 
They  thanked  the  author  for  offering  it  to  them,  and  begged 
to  return  the  MS. 

"Well,  it's  a  disappointment,"  said  Waymark,  "but  we 
must  try  again.  I  myself  am  so  hardened  to  this  kind  of 
thing  that  I  fear  you  will  think  me  unsympathetic.  It's 
like  having  a  tooth  out.  You  never  quite  get  used  to  it, 
but  you  learn  after  two  or  three  experiments  to  gauge  the 
moment's  torture  at  its  true  value.  Re-direct  your  parcel, 
and  fresh  hope  beats  out  the  old  discouragement" 

"  It  wasn't  altogether  that  which  was  making  me  feel 
xestlesa  and  depressed,"  Casti  said,  when  they  had  left  the 


94  THE  UNCLASSED 

house  and  were  walking  along.  "  I  suppose  I'm  not  quite 
right  in  health  just  at  present.  I  seem  to  have  lost  my 
natural  good  spirits  of  late ;  the  worst  of  it  is,  I  can't  settle 
to  my  day's  work  as  I  used  to.  In  fact,  I  have  just  been 
applying  for  a  new  place,  that  of  dispenser  at  the  All  Saints' 
Hospital.  If  I  get  it,  it  would  make  my  life  a  good  deal 
more  independent.  I  should  live  in  lodgings  of  my  own, 
and  have  much  more  time  to  myself." 

Waymark  encouraged  the  idea  strongly.  But  his  com- 
panion could  not  be  roused  to  the  wonted  cheerfulness. 
After  a  long  silence,  he  all  at  once  put  a  strange  question, 
and  in  an  abashed  way. 

"Waymark,  have  you  ever  been  in  love?" 

Osmond  laughed,  and  looked  at  his  friend  curiously. 

"Many  thousand  times,"  was  his  reply. 

"  No,  but  seriously,"  urged  Julian. 

"  With  desperate  seriousness  for  two  or  three  days  at  a 
time.     Never  longer." 

"Well  now,  answer  me  in  all  earnestness.  Do  you  be- 
lieve it  possible  to  love  a  woman  whom  in  almost  every 
respect  you  regard  as  your  inferior,  who  you  know  can't 
understand  your  thoughts  and  aspirations,  who  has  no  inte- 
rest in  anything  above  daily  needs  1 " 

*'  Impossible  to  say.     Is  she  good-looking?" 

"  Suppose  she  is  not ;  yet  not  altogether  plain." 

"  Then  does  she  love  you  ? " 

Julian  reddened  at  the  direct  application. 

"  Suppose  she  seems  to." 

"Seems  to,  eh? — On  the  whole,  I  should  say  that  I 
couldn't  declare  it  possible  or  the  contrary  till  I  had  seen 
the  girl.  I  myself  should  be  very  capable  of  falling  desper- 
ately in  love  with  a  girl  who  hadn't  an  idea  in  lier  head,  and 
didn't  know  her  letters.  All  I  should  ask  would  be  passion 
in  return,  and — well,  yes,  a  pliant  and  docile  character." 

"  You  are  right ;  the  character  would  go  for  much.  Never 
mind,  we  won't  speak  any  more  of  the  subject.  It  was  an 
absurd  question  to  ask  you." 

"Nevertheless,  you  have  made  me  very  curious." 

"  I  will  tell  you  more  some  other  time ;  not  now.  Tell  me 
about  your  own  plans.     What  decision  have  you  come  to  ? " 

Waymark  professed  to  have  formed  no  plan  whatever. 
This  was  not  strictly  true.  For  some  months  now,  ever  and 
again,  as  often  indeed  as  he  had  felt  the  burden  of  his  school- 


RENT  DAY  95 

work  more  than  usually  intolerable,  his  thoughts  had  turned 
to  the  one  person  who  could  be  of  any  assistance  to  him,  and 
upon  whom  he  had  any  kind  of  claim ;  that  was  Abraham 
Woodstock,  his  father's  old  friend.  He  had  held  no  com- 
munication with  Mr.  Woodstock  for  four  years;  did  not 
even  know  whether  he  was  living.  But  of  him  he  still 
thought,  now  that  absolute  need  was  close  at  hand,  and,  as 
soon  as  Julian  Casti  had  left  him  to-day,  he  examined  a 
directory  to  ascertain  whether  the  accountant  still  occupied 
the  house  in  St.  John  Street  Road.  Apparently  he  did. 
And  the  same  evening  Waymark  made  up  his  mind  to  visit 
Mr.  Woodstock  on  the  following  day. 

The  old  gentleman  was  sitting  alone  when  the  servant  an- 
nounced a  visitor.  In  personal  appearance  he  was  scarcely 
changed  since  the  visit  of  his  little  grand-daughter.  Perhaps 
the  eye  was  not  quite  so  vivid,  the  skin  on  forehead  and  cheeks 
a  trifle  less  smooth,  but  his  face  had  the  same  healthy  colour ; 
there  was  the  same  repose  of  force  in  the  huge  limbs,  and 
his  voice  had  lost  nothing  of  its  resonant  firmness. 

"  Ah  !  "  he  exclaimed,  as  Waymark  entered.  "  You  ! 
I've  been  wondering  where  you  were  to  be  found." 

The  visitor  held  out  his  hand,  and  Abraham,  though  he 
did  not  rise,  smiled  not  unpleasantly  as  he  gave  his  own. 

"You  wanted  to  see  me?"  Waymark  asked. 

"  Well,  yes.     I  suppose  you've  come  about  the  mines." 

"  Mines  1     What  mines  1 " 

"  Oh,  then  you  haven't  come  about  them.  You  didn't  know 
the  Llwg  Valley  people  have  begun  to  pay  a  dividend  ? " 

W^aymark  remembered  that  one  of  his  father's  unfortunate 
speculations  had  been  the  purchase  of  certain  shares  in  some 
Welsh  mines.  The  money  thus  invested  had  remained,  for 
the  last  nine  years,  wholly  unproductive.  Mr.  Woodstock 
explained  that  things  were  looking  up  with  the  company  in 
question,  who  had  just  declared  a  dividend  of  4  per  cent,  on 
all  their  paid-up  shares. 

"  In  other  words,"  exclaimed  Waymark  eagerly,  "  they 
owe  me  some  money  1 " 

"  W^hich  you  can  do  with,  eh  ? "  said  Abraham,  with  a 
twinkle  of  good-humoured  commiseration  in  his  eye. 

"  Perfectly.     What  are  the  details  V 

"  There  are  fifty  ten-pound  shares.  Dividend  accordingly 
twenty  pounds." 

"  By  Jingo  !     How  is  it  to  be  got  at  1 " 


96  THE  UNCLASSED 

"  Do  you  feel  disposed  to  sell  the  shares  1 "  asked  the  old 
man,  looking  up  sideways,  and  still  smiling. 

"  No  ;  on  the  whole  I  think  not." 

"  Ho,  ho,  Osmond,  where  have  you  learnt  prudence,  eh  1 
— "Why  don't  you  sit  down  1 — If  you  didn't  come  about  the 
mines,  why  did  you  come,  eh  ?  " 

"Not  to  mince  matters,"  said  Waymark,  taking  a  chair, 
and  speaking  in  an  off-hand  way  which  cost  him  much  effort, 
"  I  came  to  ask  you  to  help  me  to  some  way  of  getting  a 
living." 

"  Hollo  1 "  exclaimed  the  old  man,  chuckling.  "  Why,  I 
should  have  thouglit  you'd  made  your  fortune  by  this  time. 
Poetry  doesn't  pay,  it  seems  1 " 

"  It  doesn't.  One  has  to  buy  experience.  It's  no  good 
saying  that  I  ought  to  have  been  guided  by  you  five  years 
ago.  Of  course  I  wish  I  had  been,  but  it  wasn't  possible. 
The  question  is,  do  you  care  to  help  me  now  ? " 

"  What's  your  idea  1 "  asked  Abraham,  playing  with  his 
watch-guard,  a  smile  as  of  inward  triumph  flitting  about  his 
lips. 

"  I  have  none.  I  only  know  that  I've  been  half-starved 
for  years  in  the  cursed  business  of  teaching,  and  that  I  can't 
stand  it  any  longer.  I  want  some  kind  of  occupation  that 
will  allow  me  to  have  three  good  meals  every  day.  and  leave 
me  my  evenings  free.  That  isn't  asking  much,  I  imagine  ; 
most  men  manage  to  find  it.  I  don't  care  what  the  Avork  is, 
not  a  bit.  If  it's  of  a  kind  which  gives  a  prospect  of  getting 
on,  all  the  better ;  if  that's  out  of  the  question,  well,  three 
good  meals  and  a  roof  shall  suffice." 

"  You're  turning  out  a  devilish  sensible  lad,  Osmond," 
said  Mr.  Woodstock,  still  smiling.  "  Better  late  than  never, 
as  they  say.  But  I  don't  see  what  you  can  do.  You  literary 
chaps  get  into  the  way  of  thinking  that  any  fool  can  make  a 
man  of  business,  and  that  it's  only  a  matter  of  condescemling 
to  turn  your  hands  to  desk  work  and  the  ways  clear  befnrc 
you.  It's  a  mistake,  and  you're  not  the  first  that'll  find  it 
out." 

"  This  much  I  know,"  replied  Waymark,  with  decision. 
"  Set  me  to  anything  that  can  be  learnt,  and  I'll  be  perfect 
in  it  in  a  quarter  the  time  it  would  take  the  average  man." 

"  You  want  your  evenings  free  ? "  asked  the  other,  after  a 
short  reflection.     "  What  will  you  do  with  them  i " 

**I  shall  give  them  to  literary  work." 


RENT  DAY  97 

"  I  thought  as  much.  And  you  think  you  can  be  a  man 
of  business  and  a  poet  at  the  same  time  ?  No  go,  my  boy. 
If  you  take  up  business,  you  drop  poetising.  Those  two  horses 
never  yet  pulled  at  the  same  shaft,  and  never  will." 

Mr.  Woodstock  pondered  for  a  few  moments.  He  thrust 
out  his  great  legs  with  feet  crossed  on  the  fender,  and  with 
his  hands  jingled  coin  in  his  trouser-pockets. 

"  I  tell  you  what,"  he  suddenly  began.  "  There's  only 
one  thing  I  know  of  at  present  that  you're  likely  to  be  able 
to  do.  Suppose  I  gave  you  the  job  of  collecting  my  rents 
down  east." 

"Weekly  rents?" 

"  Weekly.  It's  a  rough  quarter,  and  they're  a  shady  lot 
of  customers.  You  wouldn't  find  the  job  over-pleasant,  but 
you  might  try,  eh  1 " 

"What  would  it  bring  me  in, — to  go  at  once  to  the 
point?" 

"  The  rents  average  twenty-five  pounds.  Your  commission 
would  be  seven  per  cent.  You  might  reckon,  I  dare  say,  on 
five-and-thirty  shillings  a  week." 

"  What  is  the  day  for  collecting  1 " 

"Mondays;  but  there's  lots  of  'em  you'd  have  to  look 
up  several  times  in  a  week.  If  you  Hke  I'll  go  round 
myself  on  Tuesday — Easter  Monday's  no  good — and  you 
can  come  with  me." 

"  I  will  go,  by  all  means,"  exclaimed  Waymark. 

Talk  continued  for  some  half-hour.  When  Waymark 
rose  at  lengtb,  he  expressed  his  gratitude  for  the  assistance 
promised. 

"  Well,  well,"  said  the  other,  "  wait  till  we  see  how  things 
work.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  you  throw  it  up  after  a  week 
or  two.  However,  be  here  on  Tuesday  at  ten.  And  prompt, 
mind  :  I  don't  wait  for  any  man." 

Waymark  was  pimctual  enough  on  the  following  Tuesday, 
and  the  two  drove  in  a  hansom  eastward.  It  was  rather 
a  foggy  morning,  and  things  looked  their  worst.  After 
alighting  they  had  a  short  walk.  Mr.  Woodstock  stopped 
at  the  end  of  an  alley. 

"  You  see,"  he  said,  "  that's  Litany  Lane.  There  are 
sixteen  houses  in  it,  and  they're  all  mine.  Half  way  down, 
on  the  left,  runs  off  Elm  Court,  where  there  are  fourteen 
houses,  and  those  are  all  mine,  too." 

Waymark  looked.     Litany  Lane  was  a  narrow  passage, 

G 


98  THE  UNCLASSED 

with  houses  only  on  one  side ;  opposite  to  them  ran  a  long 
high  wall,  apparently  the  limit  of  some  manufactory.  Two 
posts  set  up  at  the  entrance  to  the  Lane  showed  that  it  was 
no  thoroughfare  for  vehicles.  The  houses  were  of  three 
storeys.  There  were  two  or  three  dirty  little  shops,  but  the 
rest  were  ordinary  lodging-houses,  the  front-doors  standing 
wide  open  as  a  matter  of  course,  exhibiting  a  dusky  passage, 
filthy  stairs,  with  generally  a  glimpse  right  through  into  the 
yard  in  the  rear.  In  Elm  Court  the  houses  were  smaller, 
and  had  their  fronts  whitewashed.  Under  the  archway 
which  led  into  the  Court  were  fastened  up  several  written 
notices  of  rooms  to  be  let  at  this  or  that  number.  The 
paving  was  in  evil  repair,  forming  here  and  there  consider- 
able pools  of  water,  the  stench  and  the  colour  whereof  led 
to  the  supposition  that  the  inhabitants  facilitated  domestic 
operations  by  emptying  casual  vessels  out  of  the  windows. 
The  dirty  little  casements  on  the  ground  floor  exhibited 
without  exception  a  rag  of  red  or  white  curtain  on  the  one 
side,  prevaUing  fashion  evidently  requiring  no  corresponding 
drapery  on  the  other.  The  Court  was  a  cul  de  sac,  and 
at  the  far  end  stood  a  receptacle  for  ashes,  the  odour  from 
which  was  intolerable.  Strangely  enough,  almost  all  the 
window-sills  displayed  flower-pots,  and,  despite  the  wretched 
weather,  several  little  bird-cages  hung  out  from  the  upper 
storeys.     In  one  of  them  a  lark  was  singing  briskly. 

They  began  their  progress  through  the  tenements,  com- 
mencing at  the  top  of  Litany  Lane.  Many  of  the  rooms 
were  locked,  the  occupiers  being  away  at  their  work,  but 
in  such  case  the  rent  had  generally  been  left  with  some 
other  person  in  the  house,  and  was  forthcoming.  But  now 
and  then  neither  rent  nor  tenant  was  to  be  got  at,  and  dire 
were  the  threats  Avhich  Abraham  bade  the  neighbours  convey 
to  the  defaulters  on  their  return.  His  way  with  one  and 
all  was  curt  and  vigorous  ;  to  "NVaymark  it  seemed  needlessly 
brutal.  A  woman  pleading  inability  to  make  up  her  total 
sum  would  be  cut  short  with  a  thunderous  oath,  and  the 
assurance  that,  if  she  did  not  pay  up  in  a  day  or  two, 
every  stick  would  be  carried  off".  Pitiful  pleading  for  time 
had  absolutely  no  effect  upon  Abraham.  Here  and  there 
a  tenant  would  complain  of  high  rent,  and  point  out  a  cracked 
ceiling,  a  rotten  piece  of  stairs,  or  something  else  imperatively 
calling  for  renovation.  "  If  you  don't  like  the  room,  clear 
out,"  was  the  landlord's  sole  reply  to  all  such  speeches. 


RENT  DAY  99 

In  one  place  they  came  across  an  old  Irish  woman 
engaged  in  washing.  The  room  was  hung  with  reeking 
clothes  from  wall  to  wall.  For  a  time  it  was  difficult  to 
distinguish  ohjects  through  the  steam,  and  Waymark,  making 
his  way  in,  stumbled  and  almost  fell  over  an  open  box. 
From  the  box  at  once  proceeded  a  miserable  little  wail, 
broken  by  as  terrible  a  cough  as  a  child  could  be  afflicted 
with ;  and  Waymark  then  perceived  that  the  box  was  being 
used  as  a  cradle,  in  which  lay  a  baby  gasping  in  the  agonies 
of  some  throat  disease,  whilst  drops  from  the  wet  clothing 
trickled  on  to  its  face. 

On  leaving  this  house,  they  entered  Elm  Court.  Here, 
sitting  on  the  doorstep  of  the  first  house,  was  a  child  of 
apparently  nine  or  ten,  and  seemingly  a  girl,  though  the 
nondescript  attire  might  have  concealed  either  sex,  and  the 
face  was  absolutely  sexless  in  its  savagery.  Her  hair  was 
cut  short,  and  round  her  neck  was  a  bit  of  steel  chain, 
fastened  with  string.  On  seeing  the  two  approach,  she 
sprang  up,  and  disappeared  with  a  bound  into  the  house. 

"That's  the  most  infernal  little  devil  in  all  London,  I  do 
believe,"  said  Mr.  Woodstock,  as  they  began  to  ascend  the 
stairs.  "  Her  mother  owes  two  weeks,  and  if  she  don't  pay 
something  to-day,  I'll  have  her  out.  She'll  be  shamming 
illness,  you'll  see.     The  child  ran  up  to  prepare  her." 

The  room  in  question  was  at  the  top  of  the  house.  It 
proved  to  be  quite  bare  of  furniture.  On  a  bundle  of  straw 
in  one  corner  was  lying  a  woman,  to  all  appearances  in 
extremis.  She  lay  looking  up  to  the  ceiling,  her  face  dis- 
torted into  the  most  ghastly  anguish,  her  lips  foaming ;  her 
whole  frame  shivered  incessantly. 

"  Ha,  I  thought  so,"  exclaimed  Abraham  as  he  entered. 
"  Are  you  going  to  pay  anything  this  week  1 " 

The  woman  seemed  to  be  unconscious. 

"  Have  you  got  the  rent  ? "  asked  Mr.  Woodstock,  turning 
to  the  child,  who  had  crouched  down  in  another  corner. 

"  No,  we  ain't,"  was  the  reply,  with  a  terribly  fierce  glare 
from  eyes  which  rather  seemed  to  have  looked  on  ninety 
years  than  nine. 

"  Then  out  you  go  !  Come,  you,  get  up  now ;  d'  you 
hear  1  Very  well ;  come  along,  Waymark ;  you  take  hold 
of  that  foot,  and  I'll  take  this.  Now,  drag  her  out  on  to 
the  landing." 

They  dragged  her  about  half-way  to  the  door,  when  sud- 


loo  THE  UNCLASSED 

denly  Waymark  felt  the  foot  he  had  hold  of  withdra^ni 
from  his  grasp,  and  at  once  the  woman  sprang  upright. 
Then  she  feU  on  him,  tooth  and  naU,  screaming  like  some 
evil  beast.  Had  not  Abraham  forthwith  come  to  the  rescue, 
he  would  have  been  seriously  torn  about  the  face,  but  just 
in  time  the  woman's  arms  were  seized  in  a  giant  grip,  and 
she  was  flung  bodily  out  of  the  room,  falling  witli  a  crash 
upon  the  landing.  Then  from  her  and  the  child  arose  a 
most  terrific  uproar  of  commination;  both  together  yelled 
such  foulness  and  blasphemy  as  can  only  be  conceived  by 
those  who  have  made  a  special  study  of  this  vocabulary,  and 
the  vituperation  of  the  child  was,  if  anything,  richer  in 
quality  than  the  mother's.  The  former,  moreover,  did  not 
confine  herself  to  words,  but  all  at  once  sent  her  clencliod 
fist  through  every  pain  of  glass  in  the  window,  heedless  of 
the  fearful  cuts  she  inflicted  upon  herself,  and  uttering  a 
wild  yell  of  triumph  at  each  fracture.  Mr.  Woodstock  was 
too  late  to  save  his  property,  but  he  caught  up  the  creature 
like  a  doll,  and  flung  her  out  also  on  to  the  landing,  then 
cooUy  locked  the  door  behind  him,  put  the  key  in  his  pocket, 
and,  letting  Waymark  pass  on  first,  descended  the  stairs. 
The  yelling  and  screeching  behind  them  continued  as  long 
as  they  were  in  the  Court,  but  it  drew  no  attention  from  the 
neighbours,  who  were  far  too  accustomed  to  this  kind  of 
thing  to  heed  it. 

In  the  last  house  they  had  to  enter  they  came  upon  a 
man  asleep  on  a  bare  bedstead.  It  was  difficult  to  wake  him. 
When  at  length  he  was  aroused,  he  glared  at  them  for  a 
moment  with  one  blood-shot  eye  (the  other  was  sightless), 
looking  much  like  a  wild  beast  which  doubts  whether  to 
spring  or  to  shrink  back. 

"Rent,  Slimy,"  said  Mr.  Woodstock  with  more  of  good 
humour  than  usual. 

The  man  pointed  to  the  mantelpiece,  where  the  pieces  of 
money  were  foung  to  be  lying.  Waymark  looked  round  the 
room.  Besides  the  bedstead,  a  table  was  the  only  article 
of  furniture,  and  on  it  stood  a  dirty  jug  and  a  glass.  Lyin,:; 
about  was  a  strange  collection  of  miscellaneous  articles,  heaps 
of  rags  and  dirty  paper,  bottles,  boots,  bones.  There  were 
one  or  two  chairs  in  process  of  being  new-caned ;  there  was 
a  wooden  frame  for  holding  glass,  such  as  is  carried  about 
by  itinerant  glaziers,  and,  finally,  there  was  a  knife-grinding 
instrument,  adapted  for  wheeling  about  the  streets.     The 


A  MAN-TRAP  loi 

walls  were  all  scribbled  over  with  obscene  words  and  draw- 
ings. On  the  inside  of  the  door  had  been  fitted  two  enormous 
bolts,  one  above  and  one  below. 

"  How's  trade,  Slimy  1 "  inquired  Mr.  Woodstock. 

"Which  trade,  Mr.  Woodstock?"  asked  the  man  in 
return,  in  a  very  husky  voice. 

"  Oh,  trade  in  general." 

"There  never  was  sich  times  since  old  Scratch  died," 
replied  Slimy,  shaking  his  head.  "  No  chance  for  a  honest 
man." 

"Then  you're  in  luck.  This  is  the  new  collector,  d'you 
see." 

"  I've  been  a-looking  at  him,"  said  Slimy,  whose  one  eye, 
for  all  that,  had  seemed  busy  all  the  time  in  quite  a  different 
direction.  "  I  seen  him  somewheres,  but  I  can't  just  make 
out  where." 

"Not  many  people  you  haven't  seen,  I  think,"  said 
Abraham,  nodding,  as  he  went  out  of  the  room.  Waymark 
followed,  and  was  glad  to  get  into  the  open  streets  again. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

A  MAN-TRAP 

Julian  Casti  was  successful  in  his  application  for  the  post 
of  dispenser  at  the  All  Saints'  Hospital,  and  shortly  after 
Easter  he  left  the  shop  in  Oxford  Street,  taking  lodgings 
in  Beaufort  Street,  Chelsea.  His  first  evening  there  was 
spent  in  Waymark's  company,  and  there  was  much  talk  of 
the  progress  his  writing  would  make,  now  that  his  hours  of 
liberty  were  so  considerably  extended.  For  the  first  time 
in  his  life  he  was  enjoying  the  sense  of  independence. 
Waymark  talked  of  moving  from  Walcot  Square,  in  order 
to  be  nearer  to  his  friend.  He,  too,  was  possessed  of  more 
freedom  than  had  been  the  case  for  a  long  time,  and  his 
head  was  full  of  various  fancies.  They  would  encourage 
each  other  in  their  work,  afford  by  mutual  appreciation  that 
stimulus  which  is  so  essential  to  the  yoimg  artist. 

But  in  this  world,  though  man  may  propose,  it  is  woman 
who  disposes.  And  at  this  moment,  Julian's  future  was  being 
disposed  of  in  a  manner  he  could  not  well  have  foreseen. 


102  THE  UNCLASSED 

Harriet  Smales  had  heard  with  unconcealed  pleasure  of 
his  leaving  the  shop  and  taking  lodgings  of  his  own.  She 
had  been  anxious  to  come  and  see  the  rooms,  and,  though 
the  following  Sunday  was  appointed  for  her  visit,  she  could 
not  wait  so  long,  but,  to  her  cousin's  surprise,  presented 
herself  at  the  house  one  evening,  and  was  announced  by 
the  landlady,  who  looked  suspicious.  Julian,  with  some 
nervousness,  hastened  to  explain  that  the  visitor  was  a 
relative,  which  did  not  in  the  least  alter  his  landlady's 
preconceived  ideas.  Harriet  sat  down  and  looked  about  her 
with  a  sigh  of  satisfaction.  If  she  could  but  have  such  a 
home  !  Girls  had  no  chance  of  getting  on  as  men  did.  If 
only  her  father  could  have  lived,  things  would  have  been 
different.  Now  she  was  thrown  on  the  world,  and  had  to 
depend  upon  her  own  hard  work.  Then  she  gave  way  to 
an  hysterical  sob,  and  Julian — who  felt  sure  that  the  land- 
lady was  listening  at  the  door — could  only  beg  her  nervously 
not  to  be  so  down-hearted. 

"Whatever  success  I  have,"  he  said  to  her,  "you  will 
share  it." 

"If  I  thought  so!"  she  sighed,  looking  down  at  the 
floor,  and  moving  the  point  of  her  umbrella  up  and  down. 
Harriet  had  saturated  ber  mind  with  the  fiction  of  penny 
weeklies,  and  owed  to  this  training  all  manner  of  awkward 
aflFectations  which  she  took  to  be  the  most  becoming  mani- 
festations of  a  susceptible  heart.  At  times  she  would  ex- 
press herself  in  phrases  of  the  most  absurdly  high-flown 
kind,  and  lately  she  had  got  into  the  habit  of  heaving 
profound  sighs  between  her  sentences.  Julian  was  nnt 
blind  to  the  meaning  of  all  this.  His  active  employments 
during  the  past  week  had  kept  his  thoughts  from  brooding 
on  the  matter,  and  he  had  all  but  dismissed  the  trouble 
it  had  given  him.  But  this  visit,  and  Harriet's  demeanour 
throughout  it,  revived  all  his  anxieties.  Ho  came  back 
from  accompanying  his  cousin  part  of  her  way  home  in  a 
very  uneasy  frame  of  mind.  What  could  he  do  to  disabuse 
the  poor  girl  of  the  unhappy  hopes  she  entertained?  The 
thought  of  giving  pain  to  any  most  humble  creature  was 
itself  a  pain  unendurable  to  Julian.  His  was  one  of  those 
natures  to  which  self-sacrifice  is  infinitely  easier  than  the 
idea  of  sacrificing  another  to  his  own  desires  or  even  neces- 
sities, a  vice  of  weakness  often  more  deeply  and  widely 
destructive  than  the  vices  of  strength. 


A  MAN-TRAP  103 

The  visit  having  been  paid,  it  was  arranged  that  on  the 
following  Sunday  Julian  should  meet  his  cousin  at  the  end 
of  Gray's  Inn  Road  as  usual.  On  that  day  the  weather  was 
fine,  but  Harriet  came  out  in  no  mood  for  a  walk.  She  had 
been  ailing  for  a  day  or  two,  she  said,  and  felt  incapable  of 
exertion ;  Mrs.  Ogle  was  away  from  home  for  the  day,  too, 
and  it  would  be  better  they  should  spend  the  afternoon 
together  in  the  house.  Julian  of  course  assented,  as  always, 
and  they  established  themselves  in  the  parlour"  behind  the 
shop.  In  the  course  of  talk,  the  girl  made  mention  of 
an  engraving  Julian  had  given  her  a  week  or  two  before, 
and  said  that  she  had  had  it  framed  and  hung  it  in  her 
bed-room. 

"  Do  come  up  and  look  at  it,"  she  exclaimed ;  "  there's 
no  one  in  the  house.  I  want  to  ask  you  if  you  can  find 
a  better  place  for  it.     It  doesn't  show  so  well  where  it  is." 

Julian  hesitated  for  a  moment,  but  she  was  already  lead- 
ing the  way,  and  he  could  not  refuse  to  follow.  They  went 
up  to  the  top  of  the  house,  and  entered  a  little  chamber 
which  might  have  been  more  tidy,  but  was  decently  fur- 
nished. The  bed  was  made  in  a  slovenly  way,  the  mantel- 
piece was  dusty,  and  the  pictures  on  the  walls  hung  askew. 
Harriet  closed  the  door  behind  them,  and  proceeded  to  point 
out  the  new  picture,  and  discuss  the  various  positions  which 
had  occurred  to  her.  Julian  would  have  decided  the  question 
as  speedily  as  possible,  and  once  or  twice  moved  to  return 
downstairs,  but  each  time  the  girl  found  something  new  to 
detain  him.  Opening  a  drawer,  she  took  out  several  paltry 
little  ornaments,  which  she  wished  him  to  admire,  and,  in 
showing  them,  stood  very  close  by  his  side.  All  at  once  the 
door  of  the  room  was  pushed  open,  and  a  woman  ran  in. 
On  seeing  the  stranger  present,  she  darted  back  with  an 
exclamation  of  surprise. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Smales,  I  didn't  know  as  you  wasn't  alone ! 
I  heard  you  moving  about,  and  come  just  to  arst  you  to 

lend  me but  never  mind,  I'm  so  sorry ;  why  didn't  you 

lock  the  door ", " 

And  she  bustled  out  again,  apparently  in  much  confusion. 

Harriet  had  dropped  the  thing  she  held  in  her  hand,  and 
stood  looking  at  her  cousin  as  if  dismayed. 

"I  never  thought  any  one  was  in,"  she  said  nervously. 
"  It's  Miss  Mould,  the  lodger.  She  went  out  before  I  did, 
and  I  never  heard  her  come  back.    Whatever  will  she  think  ! " 


I04  THE  UNCLASSED 

"  But  of  course,"  he  stammered,  "  you  will  explain  every- 
thing to  her.     She  knows  who  I  am,  doesn't  she  ? " 

"  I  don't  think  iso,  and,  even  if  she  did " 

She  stopped,  and  stood  with  eyes  on  the  ground,  doing 
her  best  to  display  maiden  confusion.  Then  she  began 
to  cry. 

"  But  surely,  surely  there  is  no  need  to  trouble  yourself," 
exclaimed  Julian,  almost  distracted,  beginning  to  be  dimly 
conscious  of  all  manner  of  threatening  possibilities.    "I  will 

speak  to  the  woman  myself,  and  clear  you  of  every .     Oh, 

but  this  is  aU  nonsense.  Let  us  go  down  at  once,  Harriet. 
What  a  pity  you  asked  me  to  come  up  here  I  " 

It  was  the  nearest  to  a  reproach  that  he  had  ever  yet 
addressed  to  her.  His  face  showed  clearly  how  distressed 
he  was,  and  that  on  his  own  account  more  than  hers,  for 
he  could  not  conceive  any  blame  save  on  himself  for  being 
so  regardless  of  appearances. 

"  Go  as  quietly  as  ever  you  can,"  Harriet  whispered. 
"  The  stairs  creak  so.     Step  very  softly." 

This  was  terrible  to  the  poor  fellow.  To  steal  down  in 
this  guilty  way  was  as  bad  as  a  confession  of  evil  intentions, 
and  he  so  entirely  innocent  of  a  shadow  of  evil  even  in  his 
thought.  Yet  he  could  not  but  do  as  she  bade  him.  Even 
on  the  stairs  she  urged  him  in  a  very  loud  whisper  to  be  yet 
more  cautious.  He  was  out  of  himself  with  mortification ; 
and  felt  angry  with  her  for  bringing  him  into  such  ignominy. 
In  the  back  parlour  once  more,  he  took  up  his  hat  at  once. 

"You  mustn't  go  yet,"  whispered  Harriet.  "I'm  sure 
that  woman's  listening  on  the  stairs.  You  must  talk  a  little. 
Let's  talk  so  she  can  hear  us.  Suppose  she  should  tell  Mrs. 
Ogle." 

"  I  can't  see  that  it  matters,"  said  Julian,  with  annoyance. 
"  I  will  myself  see  Mrs.  Ogle." 

"  No,  no  !  The  idea  !  I  should  have  to  leave  at  once. 
Whatever  shall  I  do  if  she  turns  me  away,  and  won't  give 
me  a  reference  or  anything  1 " 

Even  in  a  calmer  mood,  Julian's  excessive  declicacy  would 
have  presented  an  affair  of  this  kind  in  a  grave  light  to  him  ; 
at  present  he  was  wholly  incapable  of  distinguishing  between 
true  and  false,  or  of  gauging  these  fears  at  their  true  value. 
The  mere  fact  of  the  girl  making  so  great  a  matter  out  of 
what  should  have  been  so  easy  to  explain  and  have  done 
with,  caused  an  exaggeration  of  the  difficulty  in  his  own 


A  MAN-TRAP  105 

mind.  He  felt  that  he  ought  of  course  to  justify  himself 
before  Mrs.  Ogle,  and  would  have  been  capable  of  doing  so 
had  only  Harriet  taken  the  same  sensible  view;  but  her 
apparent  distress  seemed — even  to  him — so  much  more  like 
conscious  guilt  than  troubled  innocence,  that  such  a  task 
would  cost  him  the  acutest  suffering.  For  nearly  an  hour 
he  argued  with  her,  trying  to  convince  her  how  impossible 
it  was  that  the  woman  who  had  surprised  them  should 
harbour  any  injurious  suspicions. 

"But  she  knows "  began  Harriet,  and  then  stopped, 

her  eyes  falling. 

"What  does  she  know?"  demanded  her  cousin  in  sur- 
prise ;  but  could  get  no  reply  to  his  question.  However,  his 
arguments  seemed  at  length  to  have  a  calming  effect,  and,  as 
he  took  leave,  he  even  affected  to  laugh  at  the  whole  affair. 
For  all  that,  he  had  never  suffered  such  mental  trouble  in 
his  life  as  during  this  visit  and  throughout  the  evening 
which  followed.  The  mere  thought  of  having  been  obliged 
to  discuss  such  things  with  his  cousin  filled  him  with  inex- 
pressible shame  and  misery.  Waymark  came  to  spend  the 
evening  with  him,  but  found  poor  entertainment.  Several 
times  Julian  was  on  the  point  of  relating  what  had  hap- 
pened, and  asking  for  advice,  but  he  found  it  impossible  to 
broach  the  subject.  There  was  an  ever-recurring  anger 
against  Harriet  in  his  mind,  too,  for  which  at  the  same 
time  he  reproached  himself.  He  dreaded  the  next  meeting 
between  them. 

Harriet,  though  herself  quite  innocent  of  fine  feeling  and 
nice  complexities  of  conscience,  was  well  aware  of  the  exist- 
ence of  such  properties  in  her  cousin.  She  neither  admired 
nor  despised  him  for  possessing  them  ;  they  were  of  unknown 
value,  indifferent  to  her,  indeed,  until  she  became  aware  of 
the  practical  use  that  might  be  made  of  them.  Like  most 
narrow-minded  girls,  she  became  a  shrewd  reader  of  character, 
when  her  affections  and  interests  were  concerned,  and  could 
calculate  Julian's  motives,  and  the  course  wherein  they  would 
lead  him,  with  much  precision.  She  knew  too  well  that  he 
did  not  care  for  her  in  the  way  she  desired,  but  at  the  same  time 
she  knew  that  he  was  capable  of  making  almost  any  sacrifice 
to  spare  her  humiliation  and  trouble,  especially  if  he  felt 
that  her  unhappiness  was  in  any  way  caused  by  himself. 

Thus  it  came  about  that,  on  the  Tuesday  evening  of  the 
ensuing  week,  Julian  was  startled  by  his  landlady's  an- 


io6  THE  UNCLASSED 

nouncing  another  visit  from  Miss  Smales.  Harriet  came 
into  the  room  with  a  veil  over  her  face,  and  sank  on  a  chair, 
sobbing.  What  she  had  feared  had  come  to  pass.  The 
lodger  had  told  Mrs.  Ogle  of  what  had  taken  place  in  her 
absence  on  the  Sunday  afternoon,  and  Harriet  had  received 
notice  that  she  must  find  another  place  at  once.  Mrs.  Ogle 
was  a  woman  of  severe  virtue,  and  would  not  endure  the 
suspicion  of  wrong-doing  under  her  roof.  To  whom  could 
she  come  for  advice  and  help,  but  to  Julian  ? 

Julian  was  overwhelmed.  His  perfectly  sincere  nature 
was  incapable  of  suspecting  a  far  more  palpable  fraud.  He 
started  up  with  the  intention  of  going  forthwith  to  Gray's 
Inn  Eoad,  but  Harriet  clung  to  him  and  held  him  back. 
The  idea  was  vain.  The  lodger,  Miss  Mould,  had  long 
entertained  a  spite  against  her,  Harriet  said,  and  had  so 
exaggerated  this  story  in  relating  it  to  Mrs.  Ogle,  that  the 
latter,  and  her  husband,  had  declared  that  Casti  should  not 
as  much  as  put  foot  in  their  shop  again. 

"  If  you  only  knew  what  they've  been  told  ! "  sobbed  the 
girl,  still  clinging  to  Julian.  "They  wouldn't  listen  to  a 
word  you  said.  As  if  I  could  have  thought  of  such  a  thing 
happening,  and  that  woman  to  say  all  the  bad  things  of  us 
she  can  turn  her  tongue  to  !  I  sha'n't  never  get  another 
place ;  I'm  thrown  out  on  the  wide  world  ! " 

It  was  a  phrase  she  had  got  out  of  her  penny  fiction ;  and 
very  remarkable  indeed  was  the  mixture  of  acting  and  real 
sentiment  which  marked  her  utterances  throughout. 

Julian's  shame  and  anger  began  to  turn  to  compassion. 
A  woman  in  tears  was  a  sight  which  always  caused  him  the 
keenest  distress. 

"  But,"  he  cried,  with  tears  in  his  own  eyes,  "  it  is  impos- 
sible that  you  should  suffer  all  this  through  me,  and  I  not 
even  make  an  attempt  to  clear  you  of  such  vile  charges  ! " 

"  It  was  my  own  fault.  I  was  thoughtless.  I  ought  to 
have  known  that  people's  always  ready  to  think  harm.  But 
I  think  of  nothing  when  I'm  with  you,  Julian  !  " 

He  had  disengaged  himself  from  her  hands,  and  was  hold- 
ing one  of  them  in  his  own.  But,  as  she  made  this  last  con- 
fession, she  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck  and  drooped  her 
head  against  his  bosom. 

"  Oh,  if  you  only  felt  to  me  like  I  do  to  you ! "  she 
sobbed. 

No  man  can  hear  without  some  return  of  emotion  a  con- 


NEAR  AND  FAR  107 

fession  from  a  woman's  lips  that  she  loves  him.  Harriet  was 
the  011I3'  girl  whom  Julian  had  ever  approached  in  familiar 
intercourse  ;  she  had  no  rival  to  fear  amongst  living  women ; 
the  one  rival  to  be  dreaded  was  altogether  out  of  the  sphere 
of  her  conceptions, — the  ideal  love  of  a  poet's  heart  and  brain. 
I>ut  the  ideal  is  often  least  present  to  us  when  most  needed. 
Here  was  love  ;  offer  but  love  to  a  poet,  and  does  he  pause  to 
gauge  its  quality  ?  The  sudden  whirl  of  conflicting  emotions 
left  Julian  at  the  mercy  of  the  instant's  impulse.  She  was 
weak  ;  she  was  suffering  through  him  ;  she  loved  him. 

"  Be  my  wife,  then,"  he  whispered,  returning  her  embrace, 
"and  let  me  guard  you  from  all  who  would  do  you  harm." 

She  uttered  a  cry  of  delight,  and  the  cry  was  a  true  one. 


CHAPTEE  XIV 

NEAR  AND  FAR 

Osmond  Waymare  was  light-hearted ;  and  with  him  such  a 
state  meant  something  not  at  all  to  be  understood  by  those 
with  whom  lightness  of  heart  is  a  chronic  affection.  The 
man  who  dwells  for  long  periods  face  to  face  with  the  bitter 
truths  of  life  learns  so  to  distrust  a  fleeting  moment  of  joy, 
gives  habitually  so  cold  a  reception  to  the  tardy  messenger 
of  delight,  that,  when  the  bright  guest  outdares  his  churlish- 
ness and  perforce  tarries  with  him,  there  ensues  a  passionate 
revulsion  unknown  to  hearts  which  open  readily  to  every 
fluttering  illusive  bliss.  Illusion  it  of  course  remains;  is 
ever  recognised  as  that ;  but  illusion  so  sweet  and  powerful 
that  he  thanks  the  god  that  blinds  him,  and  counts  off  with 
sighs  of  joy  the  hours  thus  brightly  winged. 

He  awaited  with  extreme  impatience  the  evening  on 
which  he  would  again  see  Ida.  Distrustful  always,  he 
could  not  entirely  dismiss  the  fear  that  his  first  impressions 
might  prove  mistaken  in  the  second  interview ;  yet  he  tried 
his  best  to  do  so,  and  amused  himself  with  imagining  for 
Ida  a  romantic  past,  for  her  and  himself  together  a  yet  more 
romantic  future.  In  spite  of  the  strange  nature  of  their 
relations,  he  did  not  delude  himself  with  the  notion  that 
the  girl  had  fallen  in  love  with  him  at  first  sight,  and  that 
she  stood  before  him  to  take  or  reject  as  he  chose.     He  had 


io8  THE  UNCLASSED 

a  certain  awe  of  her.  He  divined  in  her  a  strength  of 
character  which  made  her  his  equal ;  it  might  well  be,  his 
superior.  Take,  for  instance,  the  question  of  the  life  she 
was  at  present  leading.  In  the  case  of  an  ordinary  pretty 
and  good-natured  girl  falling  in  his  way  as  Ida  Starr  had 
done,  he  would  have  exerted  whatever  influence  he  might 
acquire  over  her  to  persuade  her  into  better  paths.  Any 
such  direct  guidance  was,  he  felt,  out  of  the  question  here. 
The  girl  had  independence  of  judgment ;  she  would  resent 
anything  said  by  him  on  the  assumption  of  her  moral  in- 
feriority, and,  for  aught  he  knew,  with  justice.  The  chances 
were  at  least  as  great  that  he  might  prove  unworthy  of  her, 
as  that  she  should  prove  unworthy  of  him. 

When  he  presented  himself  at  the  house  in  the  little 
court  by  Temple  Bar,  it  was  the  girl  Sally  who  opened  the 
door  to  him.  She  beckoned  him  to  follow,  and  ran  before 
him  upstairs.  The  sitting-room  presented  the  same  com- 
fortable appearance,  and  Grim,  rising  lazily  from  the  hearth- 
rug, came  forward  purring  a  welcome,  but  Ida  was  not 
there. 

"  She  was  obliged  to  go  out,"  said  Sally,  in  answer  to  his 
look  of  inquiry.  "  She  won't  be  long,  and  she  said  you  was 
to  make  yourself  comfortable  till  she  came  back." 

On  a  little  side-table  stood  cups  and  saucers,  and  a  box  of 
cigars.     The  latter  Sally  brought  forward. 

"  I  was  to  ask  you  to  smoke,  and  whether  you'd  like  a 
cup  of  coffee  with  it?"  she  asked,  with  the  curious  ndicete 
which  marked  her  mode  of  speech. 

"  The  kettle's  boiling  on  the  side,"  she  added,  seeing  that 
Waymark  hesitated.     "  I  can  make  it  in  a  minute." 

"  In  that  case,  I  will." 

"  You  don't  mind  me  having  one  as  well  ? " 

"  Of  course  not." 

"  Shall  I  talk,  or  shall  I  keep  quiet  ?  I'm  not  a  servant 
here,  you  know,"  she  added,  with  an  amusing  desire  to 
make  her  position  clear.  "  Ida  and  me's  friends,  and  she'd 
do  just  as  much  for  I." 

"  Talk  by  aU  means,"  said  Waymark,  smiling,  as  he  lit  his 
cigar.  The  result  was  that,  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  Sally 
had  related  her  whole  history.  As  Ida  had  said,  she  came 
from  Weymouth,  where  her  father  was  a  fisherman,  and 
owner  of  bum-boats.  Her  mother  kept  a  laundry,  and  the 
family  had  all  lived  together  in  easy  circumstances.     She 


NEAR  AND  FAR  109 

herself  had  come  to  London — well,  just  for  a  change.  And 
what  was  she  doing?  Oh,  getting  her  living  as  best  she 
could.     In  the  day-time  she  worked  in  a  city  workroom. 

"And  how  much  do  you  think  I  earn  a  week?"  she 
asked. 

"Fifteen  shillings  or  so,  I  suppose?" 

**  Ah,  that's  all  you  know  about  it !  Now,  last  week  was 
the  best  I've  had  .  ct,  and  I  made  seven  shillings." 

"What  do  you  do?" 

"Machine  work;  makin'  ulsters.  How  much  do  you 
think  we  get,  now,  for  makin'  a  ulster — one  like  this?" 
pointing  to  one  which  hung  behind  the  door. 

"  Have  no  idea." 

"  Well, — four  pence  :  there  now  ! " 

"And  how  many  can  you  make  in  a  day?" 

"I  can't  make  no  more  than  two.  Some  make  three, 
but  it's  blessed  hard  work.  But  I  get  a  little  job  now  and 
then  to  do  at  home." 

" But  you  can't  live  on  seven  shillings  a  week?" 

"  I  sh'd  think  not,  indeed.  We  have  to  make  up  the  rest 
as  best  we  can,  s'nough." 

"  But  your  employers  must  know  that  ? " 

"In  course.  What's  the  odds?  All  us  girls  are  the 
same ;  we  have  to  keep  on  the  two  jobs  at  the  same  time. 
But  I'll  give  up  the  day-work  before  long,  s'nough.  I  come 
home  at  night  that  tired  out  I  ain't  fit  for  nothing.  I  feel 
all  eyes,  as  the  sayin'  is.  And  it's  hard  to  have  to  go  out 
into  the  Strand,  when  you're  like  that." 

"  But  do  they  know  about  all  this  at  home  ? " 

"No  fearl  If  our  father  knew,  he'd  be  down  here 
precious  soon,  and  the  house  wouldn't  hold  him.  But  I 
shall  go  back  some  day,  when  I've  got  a  good  fit-out." 

The  door  opened  quietly,  and  Ida  came  in. 

"Well,  young  people,  so  you  are  making  yourselves  at 
home." 

The  sweet  face,  the  eyes  and  lips  with  their  contained 
mirth,  the  light,  perfect  form,  the  graceful  carriage, — Way- 
mark  felt  his  pulses  throb  at  the  sound  of  her  voice  and  the 
touch  of  her  hand. 

"  You  didn't  mind  waiting  a  little  for  me  ?  I  really 
couldn't  help  it  And  then,  after  all,  I  thought  you 
mightn't  come." 

"  But  I  promised  to." 


no  THE  UNCLASSED 

"Promises,  promises,  oh  dear!"  laughed  Ida.  "Sally, 
here's  an  orange  for  you." 

"  You  are  a  duck  ! "  was  the  girl's  reply,  as  she  caught  it, 
and,  with  a  nod  to  Waymark,  left  the  room. 

"  And  so  you've  really  come,"  Ida  went  on,  sitting  down 
and  beginning  to  draw  off  her  gloves. 

"  You  find  it  surprising?  To  begin  with,  I  have  come  to 
pay  my  debts." 

"Is  there  another  cup  of  coffee?"  she  asked,  seeming  not 
to  have  heard.     "I'm  too  tired  to  get  up  and  see." 

Waymark  felt  a  keen  delight  in  waiting  upon  her,  in 
judging  to  a  nicety  the  true  amount  of  sugar  and  cream,  in 
drawing  the  little  table  just  within  her  reach. 

"  Mr.  Waymark,"  she  exclaimed,  all  at  once,  "  if  you  had 
had  supper  with  a  friend,  and  your  friend  had  paid  the  bill, 
should  you  take  out  your  purse  and  pay  him  back  at  your 
next  meeting  ? " 

"It  would  depend  entirely  on  circumstances." 

"  Just  so.  Then  the  present  circumstances  don't  permit 
anything  of  the  kind,  and  there's  an  end  of  that  matter. 
Light  another  cigar,  will  you  ? " 

"You  don't  dislike  the  smoke?" 

"  If  I  did,  I  should  say  so." 

Having  removed  her  outer  garments  one  by  one,  she  rose 
and  took  them  into  the  inner  room.  On  reappearing,  she 
went  to  the  sitting-room  door  and  turned  the  key  in  the  lock. 

"Could  you  let  me  have  some  more  books  to  read?"  she 
asked. 

"  I  have  brought  one,  thinking  you  might  be  ready  for  it." 

It  was  "  Jane  Eyre."    She  glanced  over  the  pages  eagerly. 

"  I  don't  know  how  it  is,"  she  said,  "  I  have  grown  so 
hungry  for  reading  of  late.  Till  just  now  I  never  cared  for 
it.  When  I  was  a  child  and  went  to  school,  I  didn't  like 
my  lessons.  Still  I  learned  a  good  deal,  for  a  little  girl, 
ami  it  has  stayed  by  me.  And  oh,  it  seems  so  long  ago ! 
Never  mind,  perhaps  I  will  tell  you  all  ?bout  that  some 
day." 

They  were  together  for  an  hour  or  so.  Waymark,  uneasily 
watching  his  companion's  every  movement,  rose  as  soon  as 
she  gave  sign  of  weariness,  and  Ida  did  not  seek  to  detain  him. 

"  I  shall  think  much  of  you,"  he  said. 

"The  less  the  better,"  was  Ida's  reply. 

For  his  comfort,  yes, — Waymark  thought,  as  he  walked 


NEAR  AND  FAR  ill 

homewards.  Ida  had  already  a  dangerous  hold  upon  him ; 
she  possessed  his  senses,  and  set  him  on  fire  with  passionate 
imaginings.  Here,  as  on  every  hand,  his  cursed  poverty 
closed  against  him  the  possibilities  of  happiness.  That  she 
should  ever  come  to  love  him,  seemed  very  unlikely ;  the 
alliance  between  them  could  only  be  a  mere  caprice  on  her 
part,  such  as  girls  of  her  kind  are  very  subject  to ;  he  might 
perhaps  fill  up  her  intervals  of  tedium,  but  would  have  no 
share  in  her  real  life.  And  the  thought  of  that  life  fevered 
him  with  jealousy.  She  might  say  what  she  liked  about 
never  having  known  love,  but  it  was  of  course  impossible 
that  she  should  not  have  a  preference  among  her  lovers. 
And  to  think  of  the  chances  before  such  a  girl,  so  blessed 
with  rare  beauty  and  endless  charms.  In  the  natural  order 
of  events  she  would  become  the  mistress  of  some  rich  man ; 
might  even,  as  at  times  happens,  be  rescued  by  marriage ; 
in  either  case,  their  acquaintance  must  cease.  And,  indeed, 
what  right  had  he  to  endeavour  to  gain  her  love,  having 
nothing  but  mere  beggarly  devotion  to  offer  her  in  return  ? 
He  had  not  even  the  excuse  of  one  who  could  offer  her 
married  life  in  easy  circumstances, — supposing  that  to  be 
an  improvement  on  her  present  position.  Would  it  not  be 
better  at  once  to  break  off  these  impossible  relations  ?  How 
often  he  had  promised  himself,  in  moments  of  clear  th  .flight, 
never  again  to  enter  on  a  course  which  would  obviously 
involve  him  in  futile  suffering.  Why  had  he  not  now  the 
strength  to  obey  his  reason,  and  continue  to  possess  his  soul 
in  the  calm  of  which  he  had  enjoyed  a  brief  taste  ? 

The  novel  circumstances  of  the  past  week  had  almost 
driven  from  his  mind  all  thought  of  Maud  Enderby.  He 
regretted  having  asked  and  obtained  permission  to  write  to 
her.  She  seemed  so  remote  from  him,  their  meeting  so  long 
past.  What  could  there  be  in  common  between  himself  and 
that  dim,  quiet  little  girl,  who  had  excited  his  sympathy 
merely  because  her  pretty  face  was  made  sad  by  the  same 
torments  which  had  afflicted  him  ?  He  needed  some  strong, 
vehement,  original  nature,  such  as  Ida  Starr's ;  how  would 
Maud's  timid  conventionality — doubtless  she  was  absolutely 
conventional — suit  with  the  heresies  of  which  he  was  all 
compact  ?  Still,  he  could  not  well  ignore  what  had  taken 
place  between  them,  and,  after  all,  there  would  be  a  certain 
pleasant  curiosity  in  awaiting  her  reply.  In  any  case,  he 
would   write  just  such    a   letter   as  came   naturally  from 


na  THE  UNCLASSED 

him.  If  she  were  horrified,  well,  there  was  an  end  of  the 
matter. 

Accordingly,  he  sat  down  on  the  morning  after  his  visit 
to  Ida,  and,  after  a  little  difficulty  in  beginning,  wrote  a 
long  letter.  It  was  mainly  occupied  with  a  description  of 
his  experiences  in  Litany  Lane  and  Elm  Court.  He  made 
no  apology  for  detailing  such  unpleasant  matters,  and  ex- 
plained that  he  would  henceforth  be  kept  in  pretty  close 
connection  with  this  unknown  world.  Even  this,  he  asserted, 
was  preferable  to  the  world  of  Dr.  Tootle's  Academy.  Then 
he  dwelt  a  little  on  the  contrast  between  this  life  of  his  and 
that  which  Maud  was  doubtless  leading  in  her  home  on  the 
Essex  coast ;  and  finally  he  hoped  she  would  write  to  him 
when  she  found  leisure,  and  be  able  to  let  him  know  that 
she  was  no  longer  so  unhappy  as  formerly. 

This  he  posted  on  Friday.  On  the  following  Monday 
morning,  the  post  brought  two  letters  for  him,  both  addressed 
in  female  hand,  one  bearing  a  city,  the  other  a  country,  post- 
mark. Waymark  smiled  as  he  compared  the  two  envelopes, 
on  one  of  which  his  name  stood  in  firm,  upright  characters, 
on  the  other  in  slender,  sloping,  delicate  writing.  The 
former  he  pressed  to  his  lips,  then  tore  open  eagerly  ;  it  was 
the  promised  intimation  that  Ida  would  be  at  home  after 
eight  o'clock  on  Wednesday  and  Friday  evenings,  nothing 
more.  The  second  letter  he  allowed  to  lie  by  till  he  had 
breakfasted.  He  covdd  see  that  it  contained  more  than  one 
sheet.     When  at  length  he  opened  it,  he  read  this : — 

"  Dear  Mr.  Waymark, — I  have  an  hour  of  freedom  this 
Sunday  afternoon,  and  I  will  spend  it  in  replying  as  well  as 
I  can  to  your  very  interesting  letter.  My  life  is,  as  you  say, 
very  quiet  and  commonplace  compared  mth  that  you  find 
yourself  suddenly  entering  upon.  I  have  no  such  strange 
and  moving  things  to  write  about,  but  I  will  tell  you  in  the 
first  place  how  I  live  and  what  I  do,  then  put  down  some 
of  the  thoughts  your  letter  has  excited  in  me. 

"The  family  I  am  with  consists  of  very  worthy  but 
commonplace  people.  They  treat  me  with  more  considera- 
tion than  I  imagine  governesses  usually  get,  and  I  am 
grateful  to  them  for  this,  but  their  conversation,  especially 
that  of  Mrs.  Epping,  I  find  rather  wearisome.  It  deals  with 
very  trivial  concerns  of  every-day  life,  in  which  I  vainly 
endeavour  to  interest  myself. 


NEAR  AND  FAR  XI3 

"  Then  there  is  the  religious  formalism  of  the  Eppings  and 
their  friends.  They  are  High  Church.  They  discuss  with 
astonishing  vigour  and  at  dreadful  length  what  seems  to  me 
the  most  immaterial  points  in  the  Church  service,  and  just 
at  present  an  impulse  is  given  to  their  zeal  by  the  fact  of 
their  favourite  clergyman  being  threatened  with  a  prosecution 
for  ritualistic  practices.  Of  course  I  have  to  feign  a  becom- 
ing interest  in  all  this,  and  to  take  part  in  all  their  religious 
forms  and  ceremonies.  And  indeed  it  is  all  so  new  to  me 
that  I  have  scarcely  yet  got  over  the  first  feelings  of  wonder 
and  curiosity. 

"Have  I  not,  then,  you  will  ask,  the  courage  of  my 
opinions  ?  But  indeed  my  religious  opinions  are  so  strangely 
different  from  those  which  prevail  here,  that  I  fear  it  would 
be  impossible  to  make  my  thoughts  clear  to  these  good 
people.  They  would  scarcely  esteem  me  a  Christian;  and 
yet  I  cannot  but  think  that  it  is  they  who  are  widely  astray 
from  Christian  belief  and  practice.  The  other  evening  the 
clergyman  dined  with  us,  and  throughout  the  meal  discus- 
sions of  the  rubric  alternated  with  talk  about  delicacies  of 
the  table  !  That  the  rubric  should  be  so  interesting  amazes 
me,  but  that  an  earnest  Christian  should  think  it  compatible 
with  his  religion  to  show  the  sliglitest  concern  in  what  he 
shall  eat  or  drink  is  unspeakably  strange  to  me.  Surely,  if 
Christianity  means  anything  it  means  asceticism.  My  ex- 
perience of  the  world  is  so  slight.  I  believe  this  is  the  first 
clergyman  I  ever  met  in  private  life.  Surely  they  cannot 
all  be  thus? 

"  I  knew  well  how  far  the  world  at  large  had  passed  from 
true  Christianity ;  that  has  been  impressed  upon  me  from 
my  childhood.  But  how  strange  it  seems  to  me  to  hear  pro- 
posed as  a  remedy  the  formalism  to  which  my  friends  here 
pin  their  faith !  How  often  have  I  burned  to  speak  up 
among  them,  and  ask — 'What  think  ye,  then,  of  Christ? 
Is  He,  or  is  He  not.  our  exemplar  ?  Was  not  His  life  meant 
to  exhibit  to  us  the  ideal  of  the  completest  severance  from 
the  world  which  is  consistent  with  human  existence?  To 
foUow  Him,  should  we  not,  at  least  in  the  spirit,  cast  off 
everything  which  may  tempt  us  to  consider  life,  as  Ufe, 
precious?'  We  cannot  wor.ship  both  God  and  the  world, 
and  yet  nowadays  Christians  seem  to  make  a  merit  of  doing 
so.  When  I  conceive  a  religious  revival,  my  thought  does 
not  in  the  least  concern  itself  with  forms  and  ceremonies. 


114  THE  UNCLASSED 

I  imagine  another  John  the  Baptist  inciting  the  people,  with 
irresistible  fervour,  to  turn  from  their  sins — that  is,  from 
the  world  and  all  its  concerns — and  to  purify  themselves  by 
Renunciation.  What  they  call  '  Progress,'  I  take  to  be  the 
veritable  Kingdom  of  Antichrist.  The  world  is  evil,  life  is 
evil ;  only  by  renunciation  of  the  very  desire  for  life  can  we 
fulfil  the  Christian  idea.  What  then  of  the  civilisation 
which  endeavours  to  make  the  world  more  and  more  pleasant 
as  a  dwelling-place,  life  more  and  more  desirable  for  its 
own  sake  1 

"And  so  I  come  to  the  contents  of  your  own  letter. 
You  say  you  marvel  that  these  wretched  people  you  visited 
do  not,  in  a  wild  burst  of  insurrection,  overthrow  all  social 
order,  and  seize  for  themselves  a  fair  share  of  the  world's 
goods.  I  marvel  also ; — all  the  more  that  their  very  teachers 
in  religion  seem  to  lay  such  stress  on  the  joys  of  life.  And 
yet  what  profit  would  a  real  Christian  preacher  draw  for 
them  from  this  very  misery  of  their  existence !  He  would 
teach  them  that  herein  lay  their  supreme  blessing,  not  their 
curse ;  that  in  their  poverty  and  nakedness  lay  means  of 
grace  and  salvation  such  as  the  rich  can  scarcely  by  any 
means  attain  to ;  that  they  should  proudly,  devoutly,  accept 
their  heritage  of  woe,  and  daily  thank  God  for  depriving 
them  of  all  that  can  make  life  dear.  Only  awaken  the 
spirit  in  these  poor  creatures,  and  how  near  might  they 
be  to  the  true  Kingdom  of  Heaven  !  And  surely  such  a 
preacher  will  yet  arise,  and  there  will  be  a  Reformation 
very  different  from  the  movement  we  now  call  by  that 
name.  But  I  weary  you,  perhaps.  It  may  be  you  have 
no  interest  in  all  this.  Yet  I  think  you  would  wish  me 
to  write  from  what  I  am. 

"  It  would  interest  me  to  hear  your  further  experiences 
in  the  new  work.     Believe  me  to  be  your  sincere  friend, 

"  Maud  Enderby." 

Waymark  read,  and  thought,  and  wondered.  Then  it 
was  time  to  go  and  collect  his  rents. 


UP  THE  RIVER  115 

CHAPTER  XV 

UP   THE   RIVER 

Here  is  an  extract  from  a  letter  written  by  Julian  Casti  to 
"Waymark  in  the  month  of  Iklay.  By  this  time  they  were 
living  near  to  each  other,  but  something  was  about  to  happen 
which  Julian  preferred  to  communicate  in  writing, 

"  This  will  be  the  beginning  of  a  new  life  for  me.  Already 
I  have  felt  a  growth  in  my  power  of  poetical  production. 
Verse  runs  together  in  my  thoughts  without  effort ;  I  feel 
ready  for  some  really  great  attempt.  Have  you  not  noticed 
something  of  this  in  me  these  last  few  days  ?  Come  and 
see  me  to-night,  if  you  can,  and  rejoice  with  me." 

This  meant  that  Julian  was  about  to  be  married.  Honey- 
moon journey  was  out  of  the  question  for  him.  He  and  his 
wife  established  themselves  in  the  lodgings  which  he  was 
already  occupying.     And  the  new  life  began. 

Waymark  had  made  Harriet's  acquaintance  a  couple  of 
weeks  before  ;  JuUan  had  brought  her  with  him  one  Sunday 
to  his  friend's  room.  She  was  then  living  alone,  having 
quitted  Mrs.  Ogle  the  day  after  that  decisive  call  upon 
Julian.  There  was  really  no  need  for  her  to  have  done 
so,  Mrs.  Ogle's  part  in  the  comedy  being  an  imaginary  one 
of  Harriet's  devising.  But  Julian  was  led  entirely  by  his 
cousin,  and,  as  .she  knew  quite  well,  there  was  not  the  least 
danger  of  his  going  on  his  own  account  to  the  shop  in 
Gray's  Inn  Road;  he  dreaded  the  thought  of  such  an  in- 
terview, 

"Waymark  was  not  charmed  with  Miss  Smales ;  the  more 
he  thought  of  this  marriage,  the  more  it  amazed  him ;  for', 
of  course,  he  deemed  it  wholly  of  his  friend's  bringing 
about. 

The  marriage  affected  their  intercourse.  Harriet  did  not 
like  to  be  left  alone  in  the  evening,  so  Julian  could  not  go 
to  Waymark's,  as  he  had  been  accustomed  to,  and  conversa- 
tion in  Mrs.  Casti's  presence  was,  of  course,  under  restraint. 
Waymark  bore  this  with  impatience,  and  even  did  his  best 
to  alter  it.  One  Sunday  afternoon,  about  three  weeks  after 
the  marriage,  he  called  and  carried  Julian  off  to  his  room 
acroas  the  street.     Harriet's  face  sufficiently  indicated  her 


Il6  THE  UNCLASSED 

opinion  of  this  proceedinfr,  and  Julian  had  difficulty  In 
appearing  at  his  ease.  Waymark  understood  what  was 
going  on,  and  tried  to  discuss  the  matter  freely,  but  the 
other  shrank  from  it 

"  I  am  grievously  impatient  of  domestic  arrangements," 
Waymark  said.  "  I  fancy  it  would  never  do  for  me  to 
marry,  unless  I  had  limitless  cash,  and  my  wife  were  as 
great  a  Bohemian  as  myself.  By  the  by,  I  have  another 
letter  from  Maud,  Her  pessimism  is  magnificent.  Tliis 
intense  religiousness  is  no  doubt  a  mere  phase ;  it  Avill  pass, 
of  course ;  I  wonder  how  things  would  arrange  themselves 
if  she  came  back  to  London.  "Why  shouldn't  she  come  here 
to  sit  and  chat,  like  you  do  1 " 

"That  would  naturally  lead  to  something  definite,"  said 
Casti,  smiling. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  Why  should  it  t  I'm  a  believer  in 
friendship  between  men  and  women.  Of  course  there  is  in 
it  the  spice  of  the  difference  of  sex,  and  why  not  accept  that 
as  a  pleasant  thing?  How  much  better  if,  when  we  met  a 
woman  we  liked,  we  could  say  frankly,  '  Xow  let  us  amuse 
each  other  without  any  arrQre  pensee.  If  I  married  you 
to-day,  even  though  I  feel  quite  ready  to,  I  should  ten  to 
one  see  some  one  next  week  who  would  make  me  regret 
having  bound  myself.  So  would  you,  my  dear.  Very  well, 
let  us  tantalise  each  other  agreeably,  and  be  at  ease  in  the 
sense  that  we  are  on  the  right  side  of  the  illusion.'  You 
laugh  at  the  idea  ? " 

Julian  laughed,  but  not  heartily.  They  passed  to  other 
things. 

"I'm  making  an  article  out  of  Elm  Court,"  said  Way- 
mark.  "Semi-descriptive,  semi-reflective,  wholly  cynical. 
Maybe  it  will  pay  for  my  summer  holiday.  And,  apropos 
of  the  same  subject,  I've  got  great  ideas.  This  introduction 
to  such  phases  of  life  will  prove  endlessly  advantageous  to 
me,  artistically  speaking.  Let  me  get  a  little  more  experi- 
ence, and  I  will  write  a  novel  such  as  no  one  has  yet 
ventured  to  write,  at  all  events  in  England.  I  begin  to 
see  my  way  to  magnificent  effects ;  ye  gods,  such  light  and 
shade !  The  fact  is,  the  novel  of  every-day  life  is  getting 
worn  out.  We  must  dig  deeper,  get  to  untouched  social 
strata.  Dickens  felt  this,  but  he  had  not  the  courage  to 
face  his  subjects ;  his  monthly  numbers  had  to  lie  on  the 
family  tea-table.     Not  virginibus  puerisque  will  be  my  book, 


UP  THE  RIVER  117 

I  assure  you,  but  for  men  and  women  who  like  to  look 

beneath  the  surface,  and  who  understand  that  only  as  artistic 
material  has  human  life  any  significance.  Yes,  that  is  the 
conclusion  I  am  working  round  to.  The  artist  is  the  only 
sane  man.  Life  for  its  own  sake  1 — no ;  I  would  drink  a 
pint  of  laudanum  to-night.  But  life  as  the  source  of  splendid 
pictures,  inexhaustible  material  for  effects — that  can  reconcile 
me  to  existence,  and  that  only.  It  is  a  delight  followed  by 
no  bitter  after-taste,  and  the  only  such  delight  I  know." 

Harriet  was  very  quiet  when  Julian  returned.  She  went 
about  getting  the  tea  with  a  sort  of  indiflference ;  she  let  a 
cup  fall  and  break,  but  made  no  remark,  and  left  her  husband 
to  pick  up  the  pieces. 

"  Waymark  thinks  I'm  neglecting  him,"  said  Julian,  with 
a  laugh,  as  they  sat  down  together. 

"  It's  better  to  neglect  him  than  to  neglect  me,  I  should 
think,"  was  Harriet's  reply,  in  a  quiet  ill-natured  tone  which 
she  was  mistress  of. 

"But  couldn't  we  find  out  some  way  of  doing  neither, 
dear  1 "  went  on  Julian,  playing  with  his  spoon.  "  Now 
suppose  I  give  him  a  couple  of  hours  one  evening  every 
weekl  You  could  spare  that,  couldn't  you?  Say,  from 
e'ght  to  ten  on  Wednesdays  ? " 

"  I  suppose  you'll  go  if  you  want  to,"  said  Harriet,  rising 
from  the  tea-table,  and  taking  a  seat  sulkily  by  the  window. 

"  Come,  come,  we  won't  say  any  more  about  it,  if  it's  so 
disagreeable  to  you,"  said  Julian,  going  up  to  her,  and  coax- 
ing her  back  to  her  place.  "  You  don't  feel  well  to-day,  do 
you  ?  I  oughtn't  to  have  left  you  this  afternoon,  but  it  was 
difficult  to  refuse,  wasn't  it?" 

"  He  had  no  business  to  ask  you  to  go.  He  could  see  I 
didn't  Uke  it." 

Waymark  grew  so  accustomed  to  receiving  Ida's  note  each 
Monday  morning,  that  when  for  the  first  time  it  failed  to  come 
he  was  troubled  seriously.  It  happened,  too,  that  he  was  able 
to  attach  a  particular  significance  to  the  omission.  Wlien  they 
had  last  parted,  instead  of  just  pressing  her  hand  as  usual, 
he  had  raised  it  to  his  lips.  She  frowned  and  turned 
quickly  away,  saying  no  word.  He  had  ofi"ended  her  by  this 
infringement  of  the  conditions  of  their  friendship  ;  for  once 
before,  wlien  he  had  uttered  a  word  which  implied  more 
than  she  was  willing  to  allow,  Ida  had  engaged  him  in  the 


ii8  THE  UNCLASSED 

distinct  agreement  that  he  should  never  do  or  say  anything 
that  approached  love-making.  As,  moreover,  it  was  dis- 
tinctly understood  that  he  should  never  visit  her  save  at 
times  previously  appointed,  he  could  not  see  her  till  she 
chose  to  write.  Aiter  waiting  in  the  vain  expectation  of 
some  later  post  bringing  news,  he  himself  wrote,  simply 
asking  the  cause  of  her  silence.     The  reply  came  speedily. 

*'  I  have  no  spare  time  in  the  weeL  I  thought  you 
would  understand  this.  I.  S." 

It  was  her  custom  to  write  without  any  formal  beginning 
or  ending ;  yet  Waymark  felt  that  this  note  was  briefer 
than  it  would  have  been,  had  all  been  as  usual  between 
them.  The  jealousy  which  now  often  tortured  him  awoke 
with  intolerable  vehemence.     He  spent  a  week  of  misery. 

But  late  on  Saturday  evening  came  a  letter  addressed  in 
the  well-known  hand.     It  said — 

"  Sally  and  I  are  going  up  the  river  to-morrow,  if  it  is 
fine.  Do  you  care  to  meet  us  on  the  boat  which  reaches 
Chelsea  Pier  at  10.30?  I.  S." 

It  seemed  he  did  care ;  at  all  events  he  was  half  an  hour 
too  soon  at  the  pier.  As  the  boat  approached  his  eye  soon 
singled  out  two  very  quietly-dressed  girls,  who  sat  with 
their  backs  to  him,  and  neither  turned  nor  made  any  sign 
of  expecting  any  addition  to  their  party.  "With  like  un- 
demonstrativeness  he  took  a  seat  at  Ida's  side,  and  returned 
Sally's  nod  and  smile.  Ida  merely  said  "  Good  morning ; " 
there  was  nothing  of  displeasure  on  her  face,  however,  and 
when  he  began  to  speak  of  indifferent  things  she  replied 
with  the  usual  easy  friendliness. 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  seen  her  by  daylight.  He 
had  been  uncertain  whether  she  used  any  artificial  colour 
on  her  cheeks ;  seemingly  she  did,  for  now  she  looked  much 
paler  than  usual.  But  the  perfect  clearness  of  her  com- 
plexion, the  lustre  of  her  eyes,  appeared  to  indicate  complete 
health.  She  breathed  the  fresh  sun-lit  air  with  frank  enjoy- 
ment, and  smiled  to  herself  at  objects  on  either  side  of  the 
river. 

"By  the  by,"  Waymark  said,  when  no  words  had  been 
exchanged  for  some  minutes,   "you  didn't  tell  me   where 


UP  THE  RIVER  119 

you  were  going;  so  I  took  no  ticket,  and  left  matters 
to  fate." 

"  Are  you  a  good  walker  ? "  Ida  asked. 

"  Fairly  good,  I  flatter  myself." 

"  Then  this  is  what  I  propose.  It's  a  plan  I  carried  out 
two  or  three  times  by  myself  last  summer,  and  enjoyed. 
We  get  off  at  Putney,  walk  through  Roehampton,  then  over 
the  park  into  Richmond.  By  that  time  we  shall  be  ready 
for  dinner,  and  I  know  a  place  where  we  can  have  it  in 
comfort." 

There  was  little  thought  of  weariness  throughout  the 
delightful  walk.  All  three  gave  themselves  up  for  the  time 
to  simple  enjoyment ;  their  intercourse  became  that  of 
children ;  the  troubles  of  passion,  the  miseries  of  self-con- 
sciousness, the  strain  of  mutual  observation  fell  from  them 
as  the  city  dropped  behind ;  they  were  once  more  creatures 
for  whom  the  external  world  alone  had  reality.  Tliere  was 
a  glorious  June  sky ;  there  were  country  roads  scented  with 
flower  and  tree ;  the  wide-gleaming  common  with  its  furze 
and  bramble ;  then  the  great  park,  with  feUed  trunks  to  rest 
upon,  and  prospects  of  endlessly-varied  green  to  soothe  the 
eye.  The  girls  exhibited  their  pleasure  each  in  her  own 
way.  Sally  threw  off  restraint,  and  sprang  about  in  free 
happiness,  like  one  of  the  young  roes,  the  sight  of  which 
made  her  utter  cries  like  a  delighted  child.  She  remem- 
bered scenes  of  home,  and  chattered  in  her  dialect  of  people 
and  places  strange  enough  to  both  her  companions.  She  was 
in  constant  expectation  of  catching  a  glimpse  of  the  sea ;  in 
spite  of  all  warnings  it  was  a  great  surprise  and  disappoint- 
ment to  her  that  Richmond  Hill  did  not  end  in  cliffs  and 
breakers.  Ida  talked  less,  but  every  now  and  then  laughed 
in  her  deep  enjoyment.  She  had  no  reminiscence  of  country 
life  ;  it  was  enough  that  all  about  her  was  new  and  fresh  and 
pure ;  nothing  to  remind  her  of  Regent  Street  and  the 
Strand.  Waymark  talked  of  he  knew  not  what,  cheerful 
things  that  came  by  chance  to  his  tongue,  trifling  stories, 
descriptions  of  places,  ideal  plans  for  spending  of  ideal 
holidays;  but  nothing  of  London,  nothing  of  what  at  other 
times  his  thoughts  most  ran  upon.  He  came  back  to  him- 
self now  and  then,  and  smiled  as  he  looked  at  the  girls,  but 
this  happened  seldom. 

The  appetites  of  all  three  were  beyond  denying  when  they 
had  passed  the  "  Star  and  Garter"  and  began  to  walk  dowu 


lao  THE  UNCLASSED 

into  the  town.  "Wayinark  wondered  whither  their  guide 
would  lead  them,  but  asked  no  questions.  To  his  surprise, 
Ida  stopped  at  a  small  inn  half  way  down  the  hill. 

"You  are  to  go  straight  in,"  she  said,  with  a  smile,  to 
"Waymark,  '*  and  are  to  tell  the  first  person  you  meet  that 
three  people  want  dinner.  There's  no  choice — roast  beef 
and  vegetables,  and  some  pudding  or  otlier  afterwards. 
Then  you  are  to  walk  straight  upstairs,  as  if  you  knew  your 
way,  and  we  will  follow." 

These  directions  were  obeyed,  with  the  result  that  all 
reached  au  upper  chamber,  wherein  a  table  was  cleanly  and 
comfortably  laid,  as  if  expecting  them.  French  windows 
led  out  on  to  a  quaint  little  verandah  at  the  back  of  the 
house,  and  the  view  thence  was  perfect.  The  river  below, 
winding  between  wooded  banks,  and  everywhere  the  same 
Bplendour  of  varied  green  which  had  delighted  their  eyes 
all  the  morning.  Just  below  the  verandah  was  the  tiled 
roof  of  an  outhouse,  whereon  lay  a  fine  black  and  white  cat, 
basking  in  the  hot  sun.     Ida  clapped  her  hands. 

"  He's  like  poor  old  Grim,"  she  cried.  Then,  turning  to 
"Way mark :  "if  you  are  good,  you  may  bring  out  a  chair 
and  smoke  a  cigar  here  after  dinner." 

They  had  just  began  to  eat,  when  footsteps  were  heard 
coming  up  the  stairs. 

"Oh  bother  !"  exclaimed  Sally.  "There's  some  one  else 
a-comin',  s'nough." 

There  was.  The  door  opened,  and  two  gentlemen  walked 
in.  "Waymark  looked  up,  and  to  his  astonishment  recog- 
nised his  old  friends  O'Gree  and  Egger.  Mr.  O'Gree  was 
mopping  his  face  with  a  handkerchief,  and  looked  red  and 
hungry  ;  Mr.  Egger  was  resplendent  in  a  very  broad-brimmed 
straw  hat,  the  glistening  newness  of  which  contrasted  with 
the  rest  of  his  attire,  which  had  known  no  variation  since 
his  first  arrival  at  Dr.  Tootle's.  He,  too,  was  perspiring 
profusely,  and,  as  he  entered,  was  just  in  the  act  of  taking 
out  the  great  yellow  handkerchief  which  Waymark  had 
seen  him  chewing  so  often  in  the  bitterness  of  his 
spirit. 

"Hollo,  Waymark,  is  it  you?"  cried  Mr.  O'Gree,  for- 
getting the  presence  of  the  strangers  in  his  astonishment. 
"Sure,  and  they  told  us  we'd  find  a  gentleman  here." 

"  And  I  was  the  last  person  you  would  have  thought  of 
as  answering  that  description  ? " 


UP  THE  RIVER  lai 

"Well,  no,  I  didn't  mean  that.  I  meant  there  was  no 
mention  of  the  ladies." 

Waymark  flashed  a  question  at  Ida  with  his  eyes,  and 
understood  her  assent  in  the  smile  and  slight  motion  of  the 
head. 

"Then  let  me  introduce  you  to  the  ladies." 

The  new-comers  accordingly  made  the  acquaintance  of 
Miss  Starr  and  Miss  Fisher  (that  was  Sally's  name),  and 
took  seats  at  the  table,  to  await  the  arrival  of  their  dinners. 
Both  were  on  their  good  behaviour.  Mr.  O'Gree  managed 
to  place  himself  at  Sally's  left  hand,  and  led  the  conversa- 
tion with  the  natural  ease  of  an  Irishman,  especially  de- 
lighted if  Sally  herself  seemed  to  appreciate  his  efforts  to  be 
entertaining. 

"  Now,  who'd  have  thought  of  the  like  of  this  ! "  he  ex- 
claimed. "  And  we  came  in  here  by  the  merest  chance ; 
sure,  there's  a  fatality  in  these  things.  We've  walked  all 
the  way  from  Hammersmith." 

"And  we  from  Putney,"  said  Waymark. 

"You  don't  mean  it?     It's  been  a  warm  undertaking." 

"  How  did  you  find  the  walk,  Mr.  Egger  ? " 

"  Bedad,"  replied  that  gentleman,  who  had  got  hold  of  his 
friend's  exclamation,  and  used  it  with  killing  effect ;  "I 
made  my  possible,  but,  bedad,  I  could  not  much  more." 

"You  both  look  warm,"  Waymark  observed,  smiling. 
"  1  fear  you  hurried.  You  should  have  been  leisurely,  as 
we  were." 

"  Now  that's  cruel,  Waymark.  You  needn't  have  reflected 
upon  our  solitariness.  If  we'd  been  blessed  with  society 
such  as  you  had,  we'd  have  come  slow  enough.  As  it  was, 
we  thought  a  good  deal  of  our  dinners." 

No  fresh  guests  appeared  to  disturb  the  party.  When  all 
had  appeased  their  hunger,  Waymark  took  a  chair  out  on  to 
the  verandah  for  Ida.  He  was  spared  the  trouble  of  pro- 
viding in  the  same  way  for  Sally  by  Mr.  O'Gree's  ready 
offices.  Poor  Egger,  finding  himself  deserted,  opened  a  piano 
there  was  in  the  room,  and  began  to  run  his  finger  over  the 
keys. 

"Let  us  have  one  of  your  German  songs,  my  boy,"  cried 
O'Gree. 

"But  it  is  the  Sunday,  and  we  are  still  in  England," 
said  the  Swiss,  hesitating. 

"Pooh,  never  mind,"  said  Waymark.     "We'll  shut  the 


122  THE  UNCLASSED 

door.  Sing  my  favourite,  Mr.  Egger, — *  Wenn's  Mailu- 
fieri.' " 

When  they  left  the  inn,  Waymark  walked  first  with  Ida, 
and  Mr.  O'Gree  followed  with  Sally.  Egger  brought  up  the 
rear ;  he  had  relapsed  into  a  dreamy  mood,  and  his  mind 
seemed  occupied  with  unearthly  things. 

With  no  little  amusement  Waymark  had  noted  Sally's 
demeanour  imder  Mr.  O'Gree's  attentions.  The  girl  had 
evidently  made  up  her  mind  to  be  absolutely  proper.  The 
Irishman's  respectful  delicacy  was  something  so  new  to  her 
and  so  pleasant,  and  the  question  with  her  was  how  she 
could  suificiently  show  her  appreciation  without  at  the  same 
time  forfeiting  his  good  opinion  for  becoming  modesty.  All 
so  new  to  her,  accustomed  to  make  an  art  of  forwardness, 
and  to  school  herself  in  the  endurance  of  brutality.  She 
was  constantly  blushing  in  the  most  unfeigned  way  at  his 
neatly-turned  little  compliments,  and,  when  she  spoke,  did 
so  with  a  pretty  air  of  self-distrust  which  sat  quite  charm- 
ingly on  her.  Fain,  fain  would  O'Gree  have  proposed  to 
journey  back  to  London  by  the  same  train,  but  good  taste 
and  good  sense  prevailed  with  him.  At  the  ticket-barrier 
there  was  a  parting. 

"  How  delightful  it  would  be.  Miss  Fisher,''  said  Mr. 
O'Gree,  in  something  like  a  whisper,  "if  this  lucky  chance 
happened  again.  If  I  only  kneAV  when  you  were  coming 
again,  there's  no  telling  but  it  might." 

Sally  gave  her  hand,  smiled,  evidently  wished  to  say 
something,  but  ended  by  turning  away  and  running  after 
her  companions. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

EXAMPLE   WITHOUT  PRECEPT 

Waymark  was  grateful  for  the  help  Mr.  Woodstock  had 
given  him.  Indeed,  the  two  soon  began  to  get  on  very 
well  together.  In  a  great  measure,  of  course,  this  was  due 
to  the  change  in  Way  mark's  philosophy ;  whereas  his  early 
idealism  had  been  revolted  by  what  he  then  deemed  Mr. 
Woodstock's  crass  materialism  and  vulgarity,  the  tolerance 
which  had  come  with  widened  experience  now  made  him 
regard  these  characteristics  with  far  less  certainty  of  con- 


EXAMPLE  WITHOUT  PRECEPT  123 

demnation.  He  was  often  merely  amused  at  what  had 
formerly  enraged  and  disgusted  him.  At  the  same  time, 
there  were  changes  in  Abraham  himself,  no  doubt — at  all 
events  in  his  manner  to  the  young  man.  He,  on  his  side, 
was  also  far  more  tolerant  than  in  the  days  when  he  had 
growled  at  Osmond  for  a  conceited  young  puppy. 

One  Sunday  morning  in  early  July,  Waymark  was  sitting 
alone  in  his  room,  when  he  noticed  that  a  cab  stopped  before 
the  house.  A  minute  after,  there  was  a  knock  at  his  door, 
and,  to  his  great  surprise,  Mr,  Woodstock  entered,  bearing 
a  huge  volume  in  his  arms.  Abraham  deposited  it  on  a 
chair,  wiped  his  forehead,  and  looked  round  the  room. 

"  You  smoke  poor  tobacco,"  was  his  first  remark,  as  he 
sniifed  the  air. 

"  Good  tobacco  happens  to  be  expensive,"  was  the  reply. 
•'  Will  you  sit  down  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  will."  The  cliair  creaked  under  him.  "And  so 
here  you  hang  out,  eh  ?     Only  one  room  1 " 

"  As  you  see." 

**  Devilish  unhealthy,  I  should  think." 

"  But  economical." 

"  Ugh  ! " 

The  grunt  meant  nothing  in  particular.  Waymark  was 
eyeing  the  mighty  volume  on  the  chair,  and  had  recognised 
it.  Some  fortnight  previously,  he  had  come  upon  Abraham, 
in  the  latter's  study,  turning  over  a  collection  of  Hogarth's 
plates,  and  greatly  amusing  himself  with  the  realism  which 
so  distinctly  appealed  to  his  taste  in  art.  The  book  had 
been  pledged  in  the  shop,  and  by  lapse  of  time  was  become 
Abraham's  property.  It  was  the  first  time  that  Waymark 
had  had  an  opportunity  of  examining  Hogarth ;  the  pictures 
harmonised  with  his  mood  ;  they  gave  him  a  fresh  impulse 
in  the  direction  his  literary  projects  were  taking.  He  spent 
a  couple  of  hours  in  turning  the  leaves,  and  Mr.  Woodstock 
had  observed  his  enjoyment.  What  meant  the  arrival  of 
the  volume  here  in  Beaufort  Street  1 

Abraham  lit  a  cigar,  still  looking  about  the  room. 

"  You  live  alone  '< "  he  asked,  in  a  matter-of-fact  way. 

"  At  present." 

"  Ha !  Didn't  know  but  you  might  have  found  it  lonely ; 
I  used  to,  at  your  age." 

Then,  after  a  short  silence — 

"  By-the-by,  it's  your  birthday." 


124  THE  UNCLASSED 

"  How  do  you  know  ? " 

"  "Well,  I  shouldn't  have  done,  but  for  an  old  letter  I 
turned  up  by  chance  the  other  day.     How  old  are  you  ? " 

*'  Five-and-twenty." 

"  H'm.  I  am  sixty-nine.  You'll  be  a  wiser  man  when 
you  get  to  my  age. — Well,  if  you  can  find  room  anywhere 
for  that  book  there,  perhaps  you'd  like  to  keep  it ! " 

Waymark  looked  up  in  astonishment. 

"A  birthday  present !"  he  exclaimed.  "It's  ten  years  since 
I  had  one.  Upon  my  word,  I  don't  well  know  how  to 
thank  you  1 " 

"  Do  you  know  what  the  thing  was  published  at  1 "  asked 
Abraham  in  an  off-hand  way. 

«  No." 

"  Fifty  pounds." 

"  I  don't  care  about  the  value.  It's  the  kindness.  You 
couldn't  have  given  me  anything,  either,  that  would  have 
delighted  me  so  much." 

"  All  right ;  keep  it,  and  there's  an  end  of  the  matter. 
And  what  do  you  do  with  yourself  all  day,  ehl  I  didn't 
think  it  very  likely  I  should  find  you  in." 

"I'm  writing  a  novel." 

"  H'm.     Shall  you  get  anything  for  it  ? " 

"  Can't  say.     I  hope  so." 

"  Look  here.     Why  don't  you  go  in  for  politics  ?  " 

"  Neither  know  nor  care  anything  about  them." 

"  Would  you  like  to  go  into  Parliament  1 " 

"  Wouldn't  go  if  every  borough  in  England  called  upon 
me  to-morrow  1 " 

"Why  not?" 

"Plainly,  I  think  myself  too  good  for  such  occupation. 
If  you  once  succeed  in  getting  outside  the  world,  you  have 
little  desire  to  go  back  and  join  in  its  most  foolish 
pranks." 

"  That's  aU  damned  nonsense  !  How  can  any  one  be  too 
good  to  be  in  ParHament  1  The  better  men  you  have  there, 
the  better  the  country  will  be  governed,  won't  it  1 " 

"  Certainly.  But  the  best  man,  in  this  case,  is  the  man 
who  sees  the  shortest  distance  before  his  nose.  If  you  think 
the  world  worth  all  the  trouble  it  takes  to  govern  it,  go  in 
for  politics  neck  and  crop,  by  all  means,  and  the  world  will 
no  doubt  thank  you  in  its  o\vn  way." 

Abraham  looked  puzzled,  and  half  disposed  to  be  angry. 


EXAMPLE  WITHOUT  PRECEPT  125 

"  Then  you  think  novel- writing  better  than  governing  the 
country  ] "  he  asked. 

"  On  its  own  merits,  vastly  so." 

"And  suppose  there  was  no  government.  Wliat  about 
your  novels  then  ? " 

"I'd  make  a  magnificent  one  out  of  the  spectacle  of 
chaos." 

"  But  you  know  very  well  you're  talking  bosh,"  exclaimed 
Abraham,  somewhat  discomfited.  "  There  must  be  govern 
ment,  and  there  must  be  order,  say  what  you  like.  Its 
nature  that  the  strong  should  rule  over  tlie  weak,  and  show 
them  what's  for  their  own  good.  What  else  are  we  here 
for  1  If  you're  going  to  be  a  parson,  well  and  good  ;  then 
cry  down  the  world  as  much  as  you  please,  and  think  only 
about  heaven  and  hell.  But  as  far  as  I  can  make  out, 
there's  government  there  too.  The  devil  rebelled  and  was 
kicked  out.  Serve  him  right.  If  he  wasn't  strong  enough 
to  hold  his  own,  he'd  ought  to  have  kept  quiet." 

"  You're  a  Conservative,  of  course,"  said  Waymark,  smil- 
ing. "  You  believe  only  in  keeping  the  balance.  You  don't 
care  about  reform." 

"  Don't  be  so  sure  of  that.  Let  me  have  the  chance  and 
the  power,  and  I'd  reform  hard  enough,  many  a  thing." 

"  Well,  one  might  begin  on  a  small  scale.  Suppose  one 
took  in  hand  Litany  Lane  and  Elm  Court  1  Suppose  we 
exert  our  right  as  the  stronger,  and,  to  begin  with,  do  a 
little  whitewashing  1  Then  sundry  stairs  and  ceilings  might 
be  looked  to.  No  doubt  there'd  be  resistance,  but  on  the 
whole  it  would  be  for  the  people's  own  good.  A  little  fresh 
draining  mightn't  be  amiss,  or " 

"What  the  devil's  all  this  to  do  with  politics?"  cried 
Abraham,  whose  face  had  grown  dark. 

"  I  should  imagine,  a  good  deal,"  returned  Waymark, 
knocking  out  his  pipe.  "If  you're  for  government,  you 
mustn't  be  above  considering  details." 

"  And  so  you  think  you  have  a  hit  at  me,  eh  ?  Nothing 
of  the  kind.  These  are  afiairs  of  private  contract,  and  no 
concern  of  government  at  all.  In  private  contract  a  man 
has  only  a  right  to  what  he's  strong  enough  to  exact.  If  a 
tenant  tells  me  my  houses  ain't  fit  to  live  in,  I  tell  him  to 
go  where  he'll  be  better  off,  and  I  don't  hinder  him  ;  I  know 
well  enough  in  a  day  or  two  there'll  come  somebody  else. 
Ten  to  one  he  can't  go,  and  he  don't.    Then  why  should  I  be 


Z36  THE  UNCLASSED 

at  unnecessary  expense  in  making  the  places  better?  As 
soon  as  I  can  get  no  tenants  I'll  do  so  ;  not  till  then." 

"  You  don't  believe  in  works  of  mere  humanity  1 " 

"  What  the  devil's  humanity  got  to  do  with  business  1 " 
cried  Abraham. 

"True,"  was  Waymark's  rejoinder. 

"  See,  we  won't  talk  of  these  kind  of  things,"  said  Mr. 
Woodstock.  "  That's  just  what  we  always  used  to  quarrel 
about,  and  I'm  getting  too  old  for  quarrelling.  Got  any 
engagement  this  afternoon  1 " 

"  I  thought  of  looking  in  to  see  a  friend  here  in  the 
street " 

"  Male  or  female  1" 

"  Both  ;  man  and  wife." 

"Oh,  then  you  have  got  some  friends?  So  had  I  when  I 
was  your  age.  They  go  somehow  when  you  get  old.  Your 
father  was  the  last  of  them,  I  think.  But  you're  not  much 
like  him,  except  a  little  in  face.  True,  he  was  a  Radical, 
but  you, — weU,  I  don't  know  what  you  are.  If  you'd  been 
a  son  of  mine,  I'd  have  had  you  in  Parliament  by  now, 
somehow  or  other." 

"I  think  you  never  had  a  son?"  said  Waymark,  observ- 
ing the  note  of  melancholy  which  every  now  and  then  came 
up  in  the  old  man's  talk. 

"  No." 

"  But  you  had  some  children,  I  think  ? " 

"  Yes,  yes, — they're  dead." 

He  had  walked  to  the  window,  and  suddenly  turned  round 
with  a  kind  of  imjjatience. 

"Never  mind  the  friend  to-day;  come  and  have  some 
dinner  with  me.     I  seem  to  want  a  bit  of  com]mny." 

This  was  the  first  invitation  of  the  kind  AVaymark  had 
received.     He  accepted  it,  and  they  went  out  together. 

"It's  a  pleasant  part  this,"  Mr.  Woodstock  said,  as  they 
walked  by  the  river.  "  One  might  build  himself  a  decent 
house  somewhere  about  here,  eh  ? " 

"  Do  you  think  of  doing  so  ? " 

"  I  think  of  doing  so  !  What's  the  good  of  a  house,  and 
nobody  to  live  in  it  ? " 

Waymark  studied  these  various  traits  of  the  old  man's 
humour,  and  constantly  felt  more  of  kindness  towards  him. 

On  the  following  day,  just  as  he  had  collected  his  rents, 
and  was  on  his  way  out  of  Litany  Lane,  Waymark  was  sui- 


EXAMPLE  WITHOUT  PRECEPT  laf 

prised  at  coming  face  to  face  with  Mrs.  Casti ;  yet  more 
surprised  when  he  perceived  that  she  had  come  out  from  a 
public-house.  She  looked  embarrassed,  and  for  a  moment 
seemed  about  to  pass  without  recognising  him ;  but  he  had 
raised  his  hat,  and  she  could  not  but  move  her  head  in 
reply.  She  so  obviously  wished  to  avoid  speaking,  that  he 
walked  quickly  on  in  another  direction.  He  wondered  what 
she  could  be  doing  in  such  a  place  as  this.  It  covdd  hardly 
be  that  she  had  acquaintances  or  connections  here.  Julian 
had  not  given  him  any  particulars  of  Harriet's  former  life, 
and  his  friend's  marriage  was  still  a  great  puzzle  to  him.  He 
knew  well  that  the  girl  had  no  liking  for  himself ;  it  was 
not  improbable  that  this  casual  meeting  would  make  their 
intercourse  yet  more  strained.  He  thought  for  a  moment  of 
questioning  Julian,  but  decided  that  the  matter  was  no  busi- 
ness of  his. 

It  was  so  rare  for  him  to  meet  an  acquaintance  in  the 
streets,  that  a  second  chance  of  the  same  kind,  only  a  few 
minutes  later,  surprised  him  greatly.  This  time  the  meeting 
was  a  pleasant  one ;  somebody  ran  across  to  him  from  over 
the  way,  and  he  saw  that  it  was  Sally  Fisher.  She  looked 
pleased.  The  girl  had  preserved  a  good  deal  of  her  sea- side 
complexion  through  the  year  and  a  half  of  town  life,  and, 
when  happy,  glowed  all  over  her  cheeks  with  the  healthiest 
hue.    She  held  out  her  hand  in  the  usual  frank,  impulsive  way. 

"  Oh,  I  thought  it  was  you !  You  won't  see  I  no  more 
at  the  old  place." 

"No?     How's  that?" 

"  I'm  leavin*  un  to-morrow.  I've  got  a  place  in  a  shop, 
just  by  here, — a  chandler's  shop,  and  I'm  going  to  live  in." 

"  ]  ndeed  ?  Well,  I'm  glad  to  hear  it.  I  dare  say  you'll 
be  better  off." 

"  Oh,  I  say, — you  know  jonr  friend  1 " 

"The  Irishman  1" 

"  Yes." 

"What  about  him?"  asked  the  other,  smiling  as  he 
looked  into  the  girl's  pretty  face. 

"  Well,"  said  Sally,  "  I  don't  mind  you  telling  un  where 
I  live  now, — if  you  like. — Look,  there's  the  address  on  that 
paper ;  you  can  take  it." 

"Oh,  I  see.     In  point  of  fact,  you  wish  me  to  teU  him?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  care.  I  dessay  he  don't  want  to  know  any- 
thing about  I.     But  you  can  if  you  like." 


128  THE  UNCLASSED 

"I  will  be  sure  to,  and  no  doubt  he  will  be  delighted. 
He's  been  growing  thin  since  I  told  him  you  declined  to 
renew  his  acquaintance." 

"  Oh,  don't  talk  !  And  now  I  must  be  off.  Good-bye. 
I  dessay  I  shall  see  you  sometimes  1 " 

"  Without  doubt.  We'll  have  another  Sunday  at  Eich- 
mond  soon.     Good-bye." 

It  was  about  four  in  the  afternoon  when  Sally  reached 
home,  and  she  ran  up  at  once  to  Ida's  room,  and  burst  in, 
crying  out,  "  I've  got  it !  I've  got  it !  "  with  much  dancing 
about  and  joyous  singing.  Ida  rose  with  a  faint  smile  of 
welcome.  She  had  been  sitting  at  the  window,  reading  a 
book  lent  her  by  Waymark. 

"  They  said  they  liked  my  appearance,"  Sally  went  on, 
"  and  'ud  give  me  a  try.  I  go  in  to-morrow.  It  won't  be 
a  over  easy  place,  neither.  I've  to  do  all  the  cleaning  in 
the  house,  and  there's  a  baby  to  look  after  when  I'm  not 
in  the  shop." 

"  And  what  will  they  give  you  ? " 

"  Ten  shillings  a  month  for  the  first  half-year ;  then  a 
rise." 

"  And  you're  satisfied  1 " 

"  Oh,  it'll  do  till  something  better  turns  up.  Oh,  I  say, 
I  met  your  friend  just  after  I'd  come  away." 

"  Did  you  1 "  said  Ida  quietly. 

"  Yes ;  and  I  told  him  he  could  tell  his  friend  where  I 
was,  if  he  liked." 

"His  friend?" 

"  The  Irishman,  you  know,"  explained  Sally,  moving 
about  the  room.     "  I  told  you  he'd  been  asking  after  me." 

Ida  seemed  all  at  once  to  awake  from  a  dream.  She 
uttered  a  long  "Ah ! "  under  her  breath,  and  for  a  moment 
looked  at  the  girl  like  one  who  is  struck  with  an  unexpected 
explanation.  Then  she  turned  away  to  the  window,  and 
again  gazed  up  at  the  blue  sky,  standing  so  for  nearly  a 
minute. 

"Are  you  engaged  to-night?"  Sally  asked  presently. 

"  No ;  will  you  sit  with  me  1 " 

"You're  not  feeling  very  well  to-day,  are  you?" 

"I  think  not,"  replied  Ida,  passing  her  hand  over  her 
forehead.  "I've  been  thinking  of  going  out  of  London  for 
a  few  days,  perhaps  to  the  seaside." 

"  Go  to  Weymouth  ! "  cried  Sally,  delighted  at  the  thought. 


THE  MISSING  YEARS  129 

"  Go  and  see  my  people,  and  tell  un  how  I'm  getting  on. 
They'll  make  you  bide  with  un  all  the  time  you're  there, 
s'nough.  It  isn't  a  big  house,  but  it's  comfortable,  and  see 
if  our  mother  wouldn't  look  after  you !  It's  three  weeks 
since  I  wrote ;  if  I  don't  mind  there'U  be  our  father  up  heve 
looking  after  I.     Now,  do  go  !  " 

"No,  it's  too  far.  Besides,  if  I  go,  I  shall  want  to  be 
quite  alone." 

On  the  following  evening  "Waymark  was  expected.  At 
his  last  visit  he  had  noticed  that  Ida  was  not  in  her  usual 
spirits.  To-night  he  saw  that  something  was  clearly  wrong, 
and  when  Ida  spoke  of  going  to  the  seaside,  he  strongly 
urged  her  to  do  so. 

"  Where  should  you  go  to  ? "  he  asked. 

"  I  think  to  Hastings.  I  went  there  once,  when  I  was 
a  child,  with  my  mother — I  believe  I  told  you.  I  had 
rather  go  there  than  anywhere  else." 

"I  feel  the  need  of  a  change  myself,"  he  said,  a  moment 
after,  and  without  looking  at  her.  "  Suppose  I  were  to  go 
to  Hastings,  too— at  the  same  time  that  you're  there — 
would  you  dislike  it  1 " 

She  merely  shook  her  head,  almost  indifferently.  She 
did  not  care  to  talk  much  to-night,  and  frequently  nodded 
instead  of  replying  with  words. 

"  But — you  would  rather  I  didn't  1 "  he  urged. 

"  No,  indeed,"  still  in  the  same  indifferent  way.  "  I 
should  have  company,  if  I  found  it  dull." 

"  Then  let  us  go  down  by  the  same  train — will  you,  Ida  ? " 

As  far  as  she  remembered,  it  was  the  first  time  that  he 
had  ever  addressed  her  thus  by  her  name.  She  looked  up 
and  smiled  slightly. 

"  If  you  like,"  was  her  answer. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE    MISSING    YEARS 

"  "Why  shouldn't  life  be  always  like  this  t "  said  "Waymark, 
lying  on  the  upper  beach  and  throwing  pebbles  into  the 
breakers,  which  each  moment  drew  a  little  further  back  and 
needed  a  little  extra  exertion  of  the  arm  to  reach  them. 


I30  THE  UNCLASSED 

There  was  small  disturbance  by  people  passing,  here  some 
two  miles  up  the  shore  eastward  from  Hastings.  A  large 
shawl  spread  between  two  walking-sticks  stuck  upright 
gave,  at  this  afternoon  hour,  all  the  shade  needful  for  two 
persons  lying  side  by  side,  and,  even  in  the  blaze  of  un- 
clouded summer,  there  were  pleasant  airs  flitting  about  the 
edge  of  the  laughing  sea.  "  Why  shouldn't  life  be  always 
like  this  ?  It  might  be — sunshine  or  fireside — if  men  were 
wise.  Leisure  is  the  one  thing  that  all  desire,  but  they 
strive  for  it  so  blindly  that  they  frustrate  one  another's 
hope.  And  so  at  length  they  have  come  to  lose  the  end  in 
the  means ;  are  mad  enough  to  set  the  means  before  them 
as  in  itself  an  end," 

"We  must  work  to  forget  our  troubles,"  said  his  com- 
panion simply. 

"  Why,  yes,  and  those  very  troubles  are  the  fit  reward  of 
our  foUy.  We  have  not  been  content  to  live  in  the  simple 
happiness  of  our  senses.  We  must  be  learned  and  wise, 
forsooth.  We  were  not  content  to  enjoy  the  beauty  of  the 
greater  and  the  lesser  light.  We  must  understand  whence 
they  come  and  whither  they  go — after  that,  what  they  are 
made  of  and  how  much  they  weigh.  We  thought  for  such 
a  long  time  that  our  toil  would  end  in  something ;  that  we 
might  become  as  gods,  knowing  good  and  evil.  Now  we 
are  at  the  end  of  our  tether,  we  see  clearly  enough  that  it 
has  all  been  worse  than  vain  ;  how  good  if  we  could  unlearn 
it  all,  scatter  the  building  of  phantasmal  knowledge  in  which 
we  dwell  so  uncomfortably  !  It  is  too  late.  The  gods  never 
take  back  their  gifts ;  we  wearied  them  with  our  prayers 
into  granting  us  this  one,  and  now  they  sit  in  the  clouds 
and  mock  us." 

Ida  looked,  and  kept  silent ;  perhaps  scarcely  understood. 

"People  kill  themselves  in  despair,"  Waymark  went  on, 
"  that  is,  when  they  have  drunk  to  tlie  very  dregs  the  cup 
of  life's  bitterness.  If  they  were  wise,  they  would  die  at 
that  moment — if  it  ever  comes — when  joy  seems  supreme 
and  stable.  Life  can  give  nothing  further,  and  it  has  no 
more  hellish  misery  than  disillusion  follo^vi^g  upon  delight." 

"Did  you  ever  seriously  think  of  killing  yourself  ?"  Ida 
asked,  gazing  at  him  closely. 

"  Yes.  I  have  reached  at  times  the  point  when  I  would 
not  have  moved  a  muscle  to  escaj^e  death,  and  from  that  it 
is  not  far  to  suicide.      But  my  joy  had  never  come,  and 


THE  MISSING  YEARS  131 

it  is  hard  to  go  away  without  that  one  draught. — And 
you?" 

"  I  went  so  far  once  as  to  buy  poison.  But  neither  had 
I  tasted  any  happiness,  and  I  could  not  help  hoping." 

"And  you  still  wait — still  hope?" 

Ida  made  no  direct  answer.  She  gazed  far  off  at  the 
indistinguishable  border-land  of  sea  and  sky,  and  when  she 
spoke  it  was  in  a  softened  tone. 

"  When  I  was  here  last,  I  was  seven  years  old.  Now  I 
am  not  quite  nineteen.  How  long  I  have  lived  since  then 
— how  long !  Yet  my  life  did  not  really  begin  till  I  was 
about  eleven.  Till  then  I  was  a  happy  child,  understanding 
nothing.  Between  then  and  now,  if  I  have  discovered  little 
good  either  in  myself  or  in  others,  I  have  learned  by  heart 
everything  that  is  bad  in  the  world.  Nothing  in  meanness 
or  vileness  or  wretchedness  is  a  secret  to  me.  Compare  me 
with  other  girls  of  nineteen — perhaps  still  at  school.  What 
sort  of  a  companion  should  I  l)e  for  one  of  those,  I  wonder  ? 
What  strange  thoughts  I  should  have,  if  ever  I  talked  with 
such  a  girl ;  how  old  I  should  feel  myself  beside  her  ! " 

"  Your  knowledge  is  better  in  my  eyes  than  their  ignor- 
ance. My  ideal  woman  is  the  one  who,  knowing  every 
darkest  secret  of  life,  keeps  yet  a  pure  mind — as  you 
do,  Ida." 

She  was  silent  so  long  that  Waymark  spoke  again. 

"Your  mother  died  when  you  were  eleven?" 

"Yes,  and  that  was  wh«m  my  life  began.  My  mother 
was  very  poor,  but  she  managed  to  send  me  to  a  pretty  good 
school.  But  for  that,  my  life  would  have  been  very  dif- 
ferent; I  should  not  have  understood  myself  as  well  as  I 
always  have  done.  Poor  mother, — good,  good  mother ! 
Oh,  if  I  could  but  have  her  now,  and  thank  her  for  all  her 
love,  and  give  her  but  one  year  of  quiet  happiness.  To 
think  that  I  can  see  her  as  if  she  were  standing  before  me, 
and  yet  that  she  is  gone,  is  nowhere,  never  to  be  brought 
back  to  me  if  I  break  my  heart  with  longing ! " 

Tears  stood  in  her  eyes.  They  meant  more  than  she 
could  ever  say  to  another,  however  close  and  dear  to  her. 
The  secret  of  her  mother's  life  lay  in  the  grave  and  in  her 
own  mind ;  the  one  would  render  it  up  as  soon  as  the  other. 
For  never  would  Ida  tell  in  words  of  that  moment  when 
there  had  come  to  her  maturing  intelligence  clear  insight 
into  her  mother's  history,  when  the  fables  of  childhood  had 


(( 
<( 


132  THE  UNCLASSED 

no  longer  availed  to  blind  her,  and  every  recalled  circum- 
stance pointed  but  to  one  miserable  truth. 

"  She's  happier  than  we  are,"  Waymark  said  solemnly. 
"Think  how  long  she  has  been  resting." 

Ida  became  silent,  and  presently  spoke  with  a  firmer 
voice. 

"  They  took  her  to  a  hospital  in  her  last  illness,  and  she 
died  there.     I  don't  know  where  her  grave  is." 

And  what  became  of  you  ?  Had  you  friends  to  go  to  1 " 
No  one ;  I  was  quite  alone. — We  had  been  living  in 
lodgings.  The  landlady  told  me  that  of  course  I  couldn't 
stay  on  there ;  she  couldn't  afford  to  keep  me ;  I  must  go 
and  find  a  home  somewhere.  Try  and  think  what  that 
meant  to  me.  I  was  so  young  and  ignorant  that  such  an 
idea  as  that  I  might  one  day  have  to  earn  my  own  living 
had  never  entered  my  mind.  I  was  fed  and  clothed  like 
every  one  else, — a  good  deal  better,  indeed,  than  some  of 
the  children  at  school, — and  I  didn't  know  why  it  shouldn't 
always  be  so.  Besides,  I  was  a  vain  child ;  I  thought  my- 
self clever ;  I  had  even  begun  to  look  at  myself  in  the  glass 
and  think  I  was  handsome.  It  seemed  quite  natural  that 
every  one  should  be  kind  and  indulgent  to  me.  I  shall 
never  forget  the  feeling  I  had  when  the  landlady  spoke  to 
me  in  that  hard,  sharp  way.  My  whole  idea  of  the  world 
was  overset  all  at  once ;  I  seemed  to  be  in  a  miserable 
dream.  I  sat  in  my  mother's  bedroom  hour  after  hour,  and, 
every  step  I  heard  on  the  stairs,  I  thought  it  must  be  my 
mother  coming  back  home  to  me ; — it  was  impossible  to 
believe  that  I  was  left  alone,  and  could  look  to  no  one  for 
help  and  comfort. 

"  Next  morning  the  landlady  came  up  to  me  again,  and 
said,  if  I  liked,  she  could  tell  me  of  a  way  of  earning  my 
living.  It  was  by  going  as  a  servant  to  an  eating-house  in 
a  street  close  by,  where  they  wanted  some  one  to  wash  up 
dishes  and  do  different  kinds  of  work  not  too  hard  for  a 
child  like  me.  I  could  only  do  as  I  was  advised ;  I  went 
at  once,  and  was  engaged.  They  took  off  the  dress  I  was 
wearing,  which  was  far  too  good  for  me  then,  and  gave  me 
a  dirty,  ragged  one ;  then  I  was  set  to  work  at  once  to  clean 
some  knives.  Nothing  was  said  about  wages  or  anything 
of  that  kind ;  only  I  understood  that  I  should  live  in  the 
house,  and  have  all  given  me  that  I  needed.  Of  course  I 
was  very  awkward.     I  tried  my  very  hardest  to  do  every- 


THE  MISSING  YEARS  133 

thing  that  was  set  me,  but  only  got  scolding  for  my  pains  j 
and  it  soon  came  to  boxes  on  the  ear,  and  even  kicks.  The 
place  was  kept  by  a  man  and  wife ;  they  had  a  daughter 
older  than  I,  and  they  treated  her  just  like  a  hired  servant. 
I  used  to  sleep  with  the  girl  in  a  wretched  kitchen  under- 
ground, and  the  poor  thii)g  kept  me  awake  every  night  with 
crying  and  complaining  of  her  hard  life.  It  was  no  harder 
than  mine,  and  I  can't  think  she  felt  it  more ;  but  I  had 
even  then  a  kind  of  stubborn  pride  which  kept  me  from 
showing  what  I  suffered.  I  couldn't  have  borne  to  let 
them  see  what  a  terrible  change  it  was  for  me,  all  this 
drudgery  and  imkindness ;  I  felt  it  would  have  been  like 
taking  them  into  my  confidence,  opening  my  heart  to  them, 
and  I  despised  them  too  mucli  for  that.  I  even  tried  to 
talk  in  a  rough  rude  way,  as  if  I  had  never  been  used  to 
anything  better " 

"  That  was  fine,  that  was  heroic ! "  broke  in  Way  mark 
admiringly. 

**  I  only  know  it  was  miserable  enough.  And  things  got 
worse  instead  of  better.  The  master  was  a  coarse  drunken 
brute,  and  he  and  his  wife  used  to  quarrel  fearfully.  I 
have  seen  them  throw  knives  at  each  other,  and  do  worse 
things  than  that,  too.  The  woman  seemed  somehow  to 
have  a  spite  against  me  from  the  first,  and  the  way  her 
husband  behaved  to  me  made  her  hate  me  still  more. 
Child  as  I  was,  he  did  and  said  things  which  made  her 
jealous.  Often  when  she  had  gone  out  of  an  evening,  I  had 
to  defend  myself  against  him,  and  call  the  daughter  to 
protect  me.  And  so  it  went  on,  till,  what  with  fear  of  him, 
and  fear  of  her,  and  misery  and  weariness,  I  resolved  to  go 
away,  become  of  me  what  might.  One  night,  instead  of 
undressing  for  bed  as  usual,  I  told  Jane — that  was  the 
daughter — that  I  couldn't  bear  it  any  longer,  and  was  going 
away,  as  soon  as  I  thought  the  house  was  quiet.  She  looked 
at  me  in  astonishment,  and  asked  me  if  I  had  anywhere  to 
go  to.  Will  you  believe  that  I  said  yes,  I  had  ?  I  suppose 
I  spoke  in  a  way  which  didn't  encourage  her  to  ask  ques- 
tions ;  she  only  lay  down  on  the  bed  and  cried  as  usual. 
"  Jane,"  I  said,  in  a  little,  "  if  I  were  you.  I'd  run  away  as 
welL"  "  I  will,"  she  cried  out,  starting  up,  "  I  will  this 
very  night !  We'll  go  out  together."  It  was  my  turn  to 
ask  her  if  she  had  anywhere  to  go  to.  She  said  she  knew 
a  girl  who  lived  in  a  good  home  at  Tottenham,  and  who'd 


134  THE  UNCLASSED 

do  something  for  her,  she  thought.  At  any  rate  she'd 
rather  go  to  the  workhouse  than  stay  where  she  was.  So, 
about  one  o'clock,  we  both  crept  out  1)y  a  back  way,  and 
ran  into  Edgware  Road.  There  we  said  good-bye,  and  she 
went  one  way,  and  I  another. 

"  All  that  night  I  walked  about,  for  fear  of  being  noticeil 
loitering  by  a  policeman.  When  it  was  morning,  I  hail 
come  r(jund  to  Hyde  Park,  and,  though  it  was  terribly  cobi 
— ^just  in  March — I  went  to  sleep  on  a  seat.  I  woke  about 
ten  o'clock,  and  walked  off  into  the  town,  seeking  a  poor 
part,  where  1  thought  it  more  likely  I  might  find  something 
to  do.  Of  course  1  asked  first  of  all  at  eating-houses,  but 
no  one  wanted  me.  It  was  nearly  dark,  and  1  hadn't  tasted 
anything.  Then  I  begged  of  one  or  two  people — I  forgot 
everything  but  my  hunger — and  they  gave  me  a  few 
coppers.  I  bought  some  bread,  and  still  wandered  about. 
There  are  some  streets  into  which  I  can  never  bear  to  go 
now ;  the  thought  of  walking  about  them  eight  years  ago 
is  too  terrible  to  me.  Well,  I  walked  till  midnight,  and 
then  could  stand  up  no  longer.  I  found  myself  in  a  dirty 
little  street  where  the  house  doors  stood  open  all  night ;  I 
went  into  one,  and  walked  up  as  far  as  the  first  landing, 
and  there  fell  down  in  a  corner  and  slept  all  night." 

"Poor  child  1"  said  Waymark,  looking  into  her  face, 
which  had  become  very  animated  as  the  details  of  the 
story  succeeded  each  other  in  her  mind. 

"  I  must  have  looked  a  terrible  little  savage  on  that  next 
morning,"  Ida  went  on,  smiling  sadly.  "  Oh,  how  hungry  I 
was  !  I  was  awoke  by  a  woman  who  came  out  of  one  of  the 
rooms,  and  I  asked  her  if  she'd  give  me  something  to  eat. 
She  said  she  would,  if  I'd  light  her  fire  for  her,  and  clean 
up  the  grate.  I  did  this,  gladly  enough.  Then  she  pre- 
tended I  had  done  it  badly,  and  gave  me  one  miserable  little 
dry  crust,  and  told  me  to  be  off.  Well,  that  day  I  found 
another  woman  who  said  she'd  give  me  one  meal  and  two- 
pence a  day  for  helping  her  to  chop  wood  and  wash  vege- 
tables ;  she  had  a  son  who  was  a  costermonger,  and  the  stuff 
he  sold  had  to  be  cleaned  each  day.  I  took  the  work  gladly. 
She  never  asked  me  Avhere  I  spent  the  night ;  the  truth  was 
I  chose  a  different  house  each  night,  where  I  found  the  door 
open,  and  went  up  and  slept  on  the  stairs.  I  often  found 
several  people  doing  the  same  tiling,  and  no  one  <iisturbed  us. 

"  I  lived  so  for  a  fortnight,  then  I  was  lucky  enough  to 


THE  MISSING  YEARS  135 

get  into  another  eating-house.  I  lived  there  nearly  two 
months,  and  had  to  leave  for  the  very  same  reason  as  at  the 
first  place.  I  only  half  understood  the  meaning  of  what  I 
had  to  resist,  but  my  resistance  led  to  other  unbearable 
cruelties,  and  again  I  ran  away.  I  went  about  eight  o'clock 
in  the  evening.  The  thought  of  going  back  to  my  old 
sleeping  places  on  the  stairs  was  horrible.  Besides,  for 
some  days  a  strange  idea  had  been  in  my  head.  I  had  not 
forgotten  my  friend  Jane,  and  I  wondered  whether,  if  I 
went  to  Tottenham,  it  would  be  possible  to  find  her.  Per- 
haps she  might  be  well  off  there,  and  could  help  me.  I 
had  made  inquiries  about  the  way  to  Tottenham,  and  the 
distance,  and  when  I  left  the  eating-house  I  had  made  up 
my  mind  to  walk  straight  tliere.  I  started  from  Hoxton, 
and  went  on  and  on,  till  I  had  left  the  big  streets  behind. 
I  kept  asking  my  way,  but  often  went  long  distances  in  the 
wrong  direction.  I  knew  that  Tottenham  was  quite  in  the 
country,  and  my  idea  was  to  find  a  sleeping-place  in  some 
field,  then  to  begin  my  search  on  the  next  day.  It  was 
summer,  but  still  I  began  to  feel  cold,  and  this  drew  me 
away  out  of  my  straight  road  to  a  fire  which  I  saw  burning 
a  little  way  off.  I  thought  it  would  be  nice  to  sit  down  by 
it  and  rest.  I  found  that  the  road  was  being  mended,  and 
by  the  fire  lay  a  watchman  in  a  big  tub.  Just  as  I  came  up 
he  was  eating  his  supper.  He  was  a  great,  rough  man,  but 
I  looked  in  his  face  and  tliought  it  seemed  good,  so  I  asked 
him  if  he'd  let  me  rest  a  little.  Of  course  he  was  surprised 
at  seeing  me  there,  for  it  miist  have  been  midnight,  and 
when  he  asked  me  about  myself  I  told  him  the  truth, 
because  he  spoke  in  a  kind  way.  Then  he  stopped  eating 
and  gave  me  what  was  left;  it  was  a  bit  of  fat  bacon  and 
.some  cold  potatoes ;  but  how  good  it  was,  and  how  good  he 
was  !  To  this  moment  I  can  see  that  man's  face.  He  got 
out  of  his  tub  and  made  me  take  his  place,  and  he  wrapped 
me  up  in  something  he  had  there.  Then  he  sat  by  the  fire, 
and  kept  looking  at  me,  I  thought,  in  a  sad  sort  of  way ; 
and  he  said,  over  and  over  again,  '  Ay,  it's  bad  to  be  born 
a  little  girl ;  it's  bad  to  be  born  a  little  girl ;  pity  you  wasn't 
a  boy.'  Oh,  how  well  I  can  liear  his  voice  this  moment! 
And  as  he  kept  saying  this,  I  went  off  to  sleep." 

She  stopped,  and  played  with  the  pebbles. 

"And  in  the  morning?"  asked  Waymark. 

"  Well,  when  I  woke  up,  it  was  light,  and  there  were  a 


136  THE  UNCLASSED 

lot  of  otlier  meu  about,  beginning  their  work  on  the  road. 
I  crept  out  of  the  tub,  and  when  they  saw  me,  they  laughed 
in  a  kind  sort  of  way,  and  gave  me  some  breakfast.  I  sup- 
pose I  thanked  them,  I  hope  I  did  ;  the  watchman  was  gone, 
but  no  doubt  he  had  told  the  others  my  story,  for  they  showed 
me  the  way  to  Tottenham,  and  wished  me  luck." 

"  And  you  found  your  friend  Jane  !  " 

"  No,  no  ;  how  was  it  likely  I  should  ?  I  wandered  about 
till  I  could  stand  no  longer,  and  then  I  went  up  to  the  door 
of  a  house  which  stood  in  a  garden,  and  begged  for  some- 
thing to  eat.  The  servant  who  opened  was  sending  me 
away,  when  her  mistress  heard,  and  came  to  the  door.  She 
stood  looking  at  me  for  some  time,  and  then  told  me  to  come 
in.  I  went  into  the  kitchen,  and  she  asked  me  all  about 
myself.  I  told  her  the  truth ;  I  was  too  miserable  now 
to  do  anything  else.  Well,  the  result  was — she  kept  me 
there." 

"  For  good  1 " 

"Indeed,  for  good.  In  that  very  house  I  lived  for  six 
years.  Oh ;  she  was  the  queerest  and  kindest  little  body  ! 
At  first  I  helped  her  servant  in  the  kitchen, — she  lived 
quite  by  herself,  with  one  servant, — but  little  by  little  she 
made  me  a  sort  of  lady's  maid,  and  I  did  no  more  rough 
work.  You  wouldn't  believe  the  ridiculous  fancies  of  that 
dear  old  woman !  She  thought  herself  a  great  beauty,  and 
often  told  me  so  very  plainly,  and  she  used  to  talk  to  me 
about  her  chances  of  being  married  to  this  and  the  other 
person  in  the  neighbourhood.  And  the  result  of  all  this 
was  that  she  had  to  spend  I  don't  know  how  long  every 
day  in  dressing  herself,  and  then  looking  at  herself  in  the 
glass.  And  I  had  to  learn  how  to  do  her  hair,  and  put 
paint  and  powder  on  her  face,  and  all  sorts  of  wonderful 
things.  She  was  as  good  to  me  as  she  could  be,  and  I  never 
wanted  for  anything.  And  so  six  years  passed,  and  one 
morning  she  was  found  dead  in  her  bed. 

"  Well,  that  was  the  end  of  the  happiest  time  of  my  life. 
In  a  day  or  two  some  relatives  came  to  look  after  things, 
and  I  had  to  go.  They  were  kind  to  me,  however ;  they 
gave  me  money,  and  told  me  I  might  refer  to  them  if  I 
needed  to.  I  came  to  London,  and  took  a  room,  and  won- 
dered what  I  should  do. 

"  I  advertised,  and  answered  advertisements,  but  nothing 
came.     My  money  was  going,  and  I  should  soon  be  as  badly 


THE  MISSING  YEARS  137 

off  as  ever.  I  began  to  do  what  I  had  always  thought  of  as 
the  very  last  thing,  look  for  needlework,  either  for  home 
or  in  a  workroom.  1  don't  know  how  it  is  that  I  have 
always  hated  sewing.  For  one  thing,  I  really  can't  sew. 
I  was  never  taught  as  a  child,  and  few  girls  are  as  clumsy 
with  a  needle  as  I  am.  I've  always  looked  upon  a  work-girl's 
life  as  the  most  horrible  drudgery  ;  I'd  far  rather  scrub  floors. 
I  suppose  I've  a  rebellious  disposition,  and  just  because 
sewing  is  looked  upon  as  a  woman's  natural  slavery,  I  rebelled 
against  it. 

"  By  this  time  I  was  actually  starving.  I  had  one  day  to 
tell  my  landlady  I  couldn't  pay  my  rent.  She  was  a  very 
decent  woman,  and  she  talked  to  me  in  a  kind  way.  What 
was  better,  she  gave  me  help.  She  had  a  sister  who  kept  a 
laundry,  and  she  thought  I  might  perhaps  get  something  to 
do  there ;  at  all  events  she  would  go  and  see.  The  result 
was  I  got  work.  I  was  in  the  laundry  nearly  six  months, 
and  became  quite  clever  in  getting  up  linen.  Now  this  was 
a  kind  of  work  I  liked.  You  can't  think  what  a  pleasure  it 
was  to  me  to  see  shirts  and  collars  turning  out  so  spotless 

and  sweet " 

Waymark  laughed. 

"  Oh,  but  you  don't  understand.  I  do  so  like  cleanliness  ! 
I  have  a  sort  of  feeling  when  I'm  washing  anything,  that  I'm 
really  doing  good  in  the  world,  and  the  dazzling  white  of 
linen  after  I'd  ironed  it  seemed  to  thank  me  for  my  work." 
"Yes,  yes,  I  understand  well  enough,"  said  \Yaymark 
earnestly. 

"  For  all  that  I  couldn't  stay.  I  was  restless.  I  had  a 
foolish  notion  that  I  should  like  to  be  with  a  better  kind  of 
petiple  again — I  mean  people  in  a  higher  position.  I  still 
kept  answering  advertisements  for  a  lady's  maid's  place,  and 
at  last  I  got  what  I  wanted.     Oh  yes,  I  got  it." 

She  broke  off,  laughing  bitterly,  and  remained  silent. 
Waymark  would  not  urge  her  to  continue.  For  a  minute 
it  seemed  as  if  she  would  tell  no  more ;  she  looked  at  her 
watch,  and  half  arose. 

*'  Oh,  I  may  as  well  tell  you  all,  now  I've  begun,"  she 
said,  falling  back  again  in  a  careless  way.  "  You  know  what 
the  end's  going  to  be  ;  never  niiml,  at  all  events  I'll  try  and 
make  you  understand  liow  it  tanie. 

"The  faniily  I  got  intu  wui^  a  lady,  and  her  two  growii-up 
daughters,  and  a  son  of  about  tive-and-twenty.     They  lived 


138  THE  UNCLASSED 

in  a  small  house  at  Shepherd's  Bush.  My  wages  were  very 
small,  and  I  soon  found  out  that  they  were  a  kind  of  people 
who  keep  up  a  great  deal  of  show  on  very  little  means.  Of 
course  I  had  to  be  let  into  all  the  secrets  of  their  miserable 
shifts  for  dressing  well  on  next  to  nothing  at  all,  and  they 
expected  me — mother  and  daughters — to  do  the  most  won- 
derful and  impossible  things.  I  had  to  turn  old  rags  into 
smart  new  costumes,  to  trim  worn-out  hats  into  all  manner 
of  gaudy  shapes,  even  to  patch  up  boots  in  a  way  you  couldn't 
imagine.  And  they  used  to  send  me  with  money  to  buy 
things  they  were  ashamed  to  go  and  buy  themselves ;  then,  if 
I  hadn't  laid  out  their  few  pence  with  marvellous  result,  they 
all  but  accused  me  of  having  used  some  of  the  money  for 
myself.  I  had  fortunately  learnt  a  great  deal  with  the  old 
lady  in  Tottenham,  or  I  coukln't  liave  satisfied  them  for  a 
day.  I'm  sure  I  did  what  few  people  could  have  done,  and 
for  all  that  they  treated  me  from  almost  the  first  very  badly. 
I  had  to  be  housemaid  as  well  as  lady's  maid ;  the  slavery 
left  me  every  night  worn  out  with  exhaustion.  And  I 
hadn't  even  ti.MUgh  to  eat.  As  time  went  on,  they  treated 
me  worse  and  worse.  They  spoke  to  me  often  in  a  way 
that  made  my  heart  boil,  as  if  they  were  so  many  queens, 
and  I  was  some  poor  mean  wretch  who  was  honoured  by 
being  allowed  to  toil  for  them.  Then  they  quarrelled  among 
themselves  unceasingly,  and  of  course  I  had  to  bear  all  the 
bad  temper.  I  never  saw  people  hate  one  another  like  those 
three  did ;  the  sisters  even  scratched  each  other's  faces  in 
their  fits  of  jealousy,  and  sometimes  they  both  stormed  at 
their  mother  till  she  went  into  hysterics,  just  because  she 
couldn't  give  them  more  money.  The  only  one  in  the  house 
who  ever  spoke  decently  to  me  was  the  son — Alfred  Bolter, 
his  name  was.  I  suppose  I  felt  grateful  to  him.  Once  or 
twice,  when  he  met  me  on  the  stairs,  he  kissed  me.  I  was 
too  miserable  even  to  resent  it. 

"  I  went  about,  day  after  day,  in  a  dazed  state,  trying  to 
make  up  my  mind  to  leave  the  people,  but  I  couldn't.  I 
don't  know  how  it  was,  I  had  never  felt  so  afraid  of  being 
thrown  out  into  the  world  again.  I  suppose  it  was  bodily 
weakness,  want  of  proper  food,  and  overwork.  I  began  to 
feel  that  the  whole  world  was  wronging  me.  Was  there 
never  to  be  anything  for  me  but  slaving?  Was  I  never  to 
have  any  enjoyment  of  life,  like  other  people  ?  I  felt  a  need 
of  pleasure,  I  didn't  care  how  or  what.     I  was  always  in  a 


THE  MISSING  YEARS 


139 


fever ;  everything  was  exaugerated  to  lue.  What  was  going 
to  he  my  future  ? — I  kept  asking  myself.  Was  it  only  to  he 
hard  work,  miserably  paid,  till  I  died  ?  And  I  should  die 
at  last  without  having  known  what  it  was  to  enjoy  my  life. 
When  I  was  allowed  to  go  out — it  was  very  seldom — I 
walked  aimlessly  about  the  streets,  watching  all  the  girls  I 
passed,  and  fancying  they  all  looked  so  happy,  all  enjoying 
their  life  so.  I  was  growing  thin  and  pale.  I  coughed, 
antl  began  to  think  I  was  consumptive.  A  little  more  of  it 
and  I  believe  I  should  have  become  so  really. 

"It  came  to  an  end,  suddenly  and  unexpectedly.  All 
three,  mother  and  daughters,  had  been  worrying  me  through 
a  whole  morning,  and  at  last  one  of  them  called  me  a  down- 
right fool,  and  said  I  wasn't  worth  the  bread  I  ate.  I  turned 
on  them.  I  can't  remember  a  word  I  said,  but  speak  I  did, 
and  in  a  way  that  astonished  them ;  they  shrank  back  from 
me,  looking  pale  and  frightened.  I  felt  in  that  moment  that 
I  was  a  thousand  times  their  superior ;  I  believe  I  told  them 
so.  Then  I  rushed  up  to  my  room,  packed  my  box,  and 
went  out  into  the  street. 

"  I  had  just  turned  a  corner,  when  some  one  came  up  to 
me,  and  it  was  Mr.  Bolter.  He  had  followed  me  from  the 
house.  He  laughed,  said  I  had  done  quite  right,  and  asked 
me  if  I  had  any  money.  I  shook  my  head.  He  walked  on 
by  me,  and  talked.  The  end  was,  that  he  foiind  me  rooms, 
and  provided  for  me. 

"  I  had  not  the  least  affection  for  him,  but  he  had 
pleasant,  gentlemaidy  ways,  and  it  scarcely  even  occurred 
to  me  to  refuse  his  offers.  I  was  reckless ;  what  happened 
to  me  mattered  little,  as  long  as  I  had  not  to  face  hard 
work.  I  needed  rest.  For  one  in  my  position  there  was, 
I  saw  well  enough,  only  one  way  of  getting  it.  I  took 
that  way." 

Ida  had  told  this  in  a  straightforward,  unhesitating 
manner,  not  meeting  her  companion's  gaze,  yet  not  turn- 
ing away.  One  would  have  said  that  judgments  upon 
her  story  were  indifferent  to  her;  she  simply  related  past 
events.     In  a  moment,  she  resumed. 

"Do  you  remember,  on  the  night  when  you  first  met  me, 
a  man  following  us  in  the  street  1 " 

Waymark  nodded. 

"  He  was  a  friend  of  Alfred  Bolter's,  and  sometimes  we 
met  him  when  we  went  to  the  tlieatre,  and  such  places. 


I40  THE  UNCLASSED 

That  is  the  only  person  I  ever  hated  from  the  first  sight, 
— hated  and  dreaded  in  a  way  I  could  not  possibly 
explain." 

"  But  why  do  you  mention  him  1 "  asked  Way  mark. 
"  What  is  his  name  1 " 

"  His  name  is  Edwards,"  returned  Ida,  pronouncing  it  as 
if  the  sound  excited  loathing  in  her.  "  I  had  been  living 
in  this  way  for  nearly  half-a-year,  when  one  day  this  man 
called  and  came  up  to  my  sitting-room.  He  said  he  had 
an  appointment  with  Mr.  Bolter,  who  would  come  presently. 
I  sat  scarcely  speaking,  but  he  talked  on.  Presently,  Mr. 
Bolter  came.  He  seemed  surprised  to  find  the  other  man 
with  me,  and  almost  at  once  turned  round  and  went  out 
again.  Edwards  followed  him,  saying  to  me  that  he 
wondered  what  it  all  meant.  The  meaning  was  made  clear 
to  me  a  few  hours  after.  There  came  a  short  note  from  Mr. 
Bolter,  saying  that  he  had  suspected  that  something  was 
■wrong,  and  that  under  the  circumstances  he  could  of  course 
only  say  good-bye. 

I  can't  say  that  I  was  sorry ;  I  can't  say  that  I  was  gla3. 
I  desjjised  him  for  his  meanness,  not  even  troubling  myself 
to  try  and  make  sure  of  what  had  happened.  The  same 
night  Edwards  came  to  see  me  again,  made  excuses,  blamed 
his  friend,  shuffled  here  and  there,  and  gave  me  clearly  to 
understand  what  he  wanted.  I  scarcely  spoke,  only  told 
him  to  go  away,  and  that  he  need  never  spe;ik  to  me  any- 
where or  at  any  time  ;  it  would  be  useless.  Well,  I  changed 
my  lodgings  for  those  I  now  have,  and  simply  began  the 
life  I  now — the  life  I  have  been  leading.  Work  was  more 
impossible  for  me  tlian  ever,  and  I  had  to  feed  and  clothe 
myself." 

"How  long  ago  was  that?"  asked  Waymark,  without 
looking  up. 

"  Four  months." 

Ida  rose  from  the  beach.  The  tide  had  gone  down  some 
distance ;  there  were  stretches  of  smooth  sand,  already  dry 
in  the  sunshine. 

"  Let  us  walk  back  on  the  sands,"  she  said,  pointing. 

"  You  are  going  home  ? " 

"Yes,  I  want  to  rest  a  little.  I  will  meet  you  again 
about  eight  o'clock,  if  you  like." 

Waymark  accompanied  her  as  far  as  the  door,  then  strolled 
on  to  his  own  lodgings,  which  were  near  at  hand.     It  was 


THE  MISSING  YEARS  141 

only  the  second  day  that  they  had  been  in  Hastings,  yet  it 
seemed  to  him  as  if  he  had  been  walking  about  on  the  sea- 
shore with  Ida  for  weeks.  For  all  that,  he  felt  that  he  was 
not  as  near  to  her  now  as  he  had  been  on  certain  evenings 
in  London,  when  his  arrival  was  to  her  a  manifest  pleasure, 
and  their  talk  unflagging  from  hour  to  hour.  She  did 
not  show  the  spirit  of  holiday,  seemed  weary  from  time 
to  time,  was  too  often  preoccupied  and  indisposed  to  talk. 
True,  she  had  at  length  fulfilled  her  promise  of  telling 
him  the  whole  of  her  story,  but  even  this  increase  of  con- 
fidence Waymark's  uneasy  mind  strangely  converted  into 
fresh  source  of  discomfort  to  himself.  She  had  made  this 
revelation — he  half  believed — on  purpose  to  keep  up  the 
distance  between  them,  to  warn  him  how  slight  occasion 
had  led  her  from  what  is  called  the  path  of  virtue,  that 
he  might  not  delude  himself  into  exaggerated  estimates  of 
her  character.  Such  a  thought  could  of  course  only  be  due 
to  the  fact  that  Ida's  story  had  indeed  produced  something 
of  this  impression  upon  her  hearer.  Waymark  had  often 
busied  himself  with  inventing  all  manner  of  excuses  for  her, 
had  exerted  his  imagination  to  the  utmost  to  hit  upon  some 
most  irresistible  climax  of  dolorous  circumstances  to  account 
for  her  downfall.  He  had  yet  to  realise  that  circumstances 
are  as  relative  in  their  importance  as  everything  else  in 
this  world,  and  that  ofttimes  the  greatest  tragedies  revolve 
on  apparently  the  most  insignificant  outward  events — 
personality  being  all. 

He  spent  the  hours  of  her  absence  in  moving  from  place 
to  place,  fretting  in  mind.  At  one  moment,  he  half  deter- 
mined to  bring  things  to  some  issue,  by  disregarding  all 
considerations  and  urging  his  love  upon  her.  Yet  this  he 
felt  he  could  not  do.  Surely — he  asked  himself  angrily — 
he  was  not  still  so  much  in  the  thraldom  of  conventionality 
as  to  be  aff'ected  by  his  fresh  reminder  of  her  position  and 
antecedents?  Perhaps  not  quite  so  much  prejudice  as  ex- 
perience which  disturbed  him.  He  was  well  acquainted 
with  the  characteristics  of  girls  of  this  class ;  he  knew  how 
all  but  impossible  it  is  for  thera  to  tell  the  truth,  the  whole 
truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth.  And  there  was  one  thing 
particularly  in  Ida's  story  thut  he  found  hard  to  credit ;  was 
it  indeed  likely  that  she  had  not  felt  more  than  she  would 
confess  for  this  man  whose  mistress  she  became  so  easily  1 
If  she  had  not,  if  what  she  said  were  true,  was  not  this 


142  THE  UNCLASSED 

something  like  a  proof  of  her  lack  of  that  refined  sentiment 
which  is,  the  capacity  for  love,  in  its  real  sense  ?  Torturing 
doubts  and  reasonings  of  this  kind  once  set  going  in  a  brain 
already  confused  with  passion,  there  is  no  limit  to  the  range 
of  speculation  opened;  Waymark  found  himself — in  spite 
of  everything — entertaining  all  his  old  scepticism.  In  any 
case,  had  he  the  slightest  ground  for  the  hope  that  she  might 
ever  feel  to  him  as  warmly  as  he  did  to  her  t  He  could  not 
recall  one  instance  of  Ida's  having  betrayed  a  trace  of  fond- 
ness in  her  intercourse  with  him.  The  mere  fact  of  their 
intercourse  he  altogether  lost  sight  of.  Whereas  an  outsider 
would,  under  the  circumstances,  have  been  justified  in  laying 
the  utmost  stress  on  this,  Waymark  had  grown  to  accept  it 
as  a  matter  of  course,  and  only  occupied  himself  with  Ida's 
absolute  self-control,  her  perfect  calmness  in  all  situations, 
the  ease  with  which  she  met  his  glance,  the  looseness  of 
her  hand  in  his,  the  indifference  with  which  she  heard  him 
when  he  had  spoken  of  his  loneliness  and  frequent  misery. 
Where  was  the  key  of  her  character  1  She  did  not  care  for 
admiration ;  it  was  quite  certain  that  she  was  not  leading 
him  about  just  to  gratify  her  own  vanity.  Was  it  not 
purely  an  intellectual  matter?  She  was  a  girl  of  superior 
intellect,  and,  having  found  in  him  some  one  with  whom  she 
could  satisfy  her  desire  for  rational  converse,  did  she  not  on 
this  account  keep  up  their  relations  t  For  the  rest — well, 
she  liked  ease  and  luxury;  above  all,  ease.  Of  that  she 
would  certainly  make  no  sacrifice.  How  Avell  he  could 
imagine  the  half-annoyed,  half-contemptuous  smile  which 
would  rise  to  her  beautiful  face,  if  he  were  so  foolish  as  to 
become  sentimental  with  her  I  That,  he  felt,  would  be  a 
look  not  easy  to  bear.     Humiliation  he  dreaded. 

When  eight  o'clock  came,  he  was  leaning  over  the  end  of 
the  pier,  at  the  appointed  spot,  still  busy  in  thought.  There 
came  a  touch  on  his  arm. 

"  Well,  are  you  thinking  how  you  can  make  a  book  out 
of  my  story  1 " 

The  touch,  the  voice,  the  smile, — how  all  his  sophistry 
was  swept  away  in  a  rush  of  tenderness  and  delii^ht ! 

"  I  must  wait  for  the  end  of  it,"  he  returned,  holding  out 
his  hand,  which  she  did  not  take. 

"  The  end? — Oh,  you  must  invent  one.  Ends  in  real  life 
are  so  commonplace  and  uninteresting." 

"  Commonplace  or  not,"  said  Waymark,  with  some  lack 


THE  MISSING  YEARS  143 

of  firmness  in  his  voice,  "  the  end  of  your  story  should  not 
be  an  unhappy  one,  if  I  had  the  disposing  of  it.  And  I 
might  have — but  for  one  thing." 

"  What's  that  1 "  she  asked,  with  sudden  interest. 

"  My  miserable  poverty.  If  I  only  had  money — 
money  " 

*'  Money  ! "  she  exclaimed,  turning  away  almost  angrily. 
Tlien  she  added,  with  the  coldness  which  she  did  not  often 
use,  but  which,  when  she  did,  chilled  and  checked  him — 
"  I  don't  understand  you." 

He  j)ointed  with  a  bitter  smile  down  to  the  sands. 

"  Look  at  that  gold  of  the  sunset  in  the  pools  the  tide  has 
left.  It  is  the  most  glorious  colour  in  nature,  1  lut  it  makes 
me  miserable  by  reminding  me  of  the  metal  it  takes  its  name 
from." 

She  looked  at  him  with  eyes  which  had  in  them  a  strange 
wonder,  sad  at  first,  then  full  of  scorn,  of  indignation.  And 
then  she  laughed,  drawing  herself  away  from  him.  The 
laugh  irritated  him.  He  experienced  a  terrible  revulsion  of 
feeling,  from  the  warmth  and  passion  Avhich  had  possessed 
him,  to  that  humiliation,  which  he  could  not  bear. 

And  just  now  a  number  of  people  came  and  took  their 
stands  close  by,  in  a  gossiping  group.  Ida  had  half  turned 
away,  and  was  looking  at  the  golden  pools.  He  tried  to  say 
something,  but  his  tongue  was  dry,  and  the  word  would  not 
come.  Presently,  she  faced  him  again,  and  said,  in  very 
much  her  ordinary  tone — 

"  I  was  going  to  tell  you  that  I  have  just  had  news 
from  London,  which  makes  it  necessary  for  me  to  go  back 
to-morrow.     I  shall  have  to  take  an  early  train." 

"This  is  because  I  have  offended  you,"  Waymark  said, 
moving  nearer  to  her.  "  You  had  no  thought  of  going  before 
that." 

"  I  am  not  surprised  that  you  refuse  to  believe  me,"  re- 
turned Ida,  smiling  very  faintly.  "  Still,  it  is  the  truth. 
Ajttd  now  I  must  go  in  again ; — I  am  very  tired." 

"No,"  he  exclaimed  as  she  moved  away,  "you  must  not 
go  in  till — till  you  have  forgotten  me.  At  least  come  away 
to  a  quiet  place,  where  I  can  speak  freely  to  you ;  these 
people  " 

"To-morrow  morning,"  slie  said,  waving  her  hand  wearily. 
"  I  can't  talk  now — and  indeed  there  is  no  need  to  speak  of 
this  at  all.     I  have  forgotten  it." 


144  THE  UNCLASSED 

"  No,  you  have  not ;  how  could  you  1 — And  you  will  not 
go  to-morrow ;  you  shall  not." 

"  Yes,  I  must,"  she  returned  firmly. 

"  Then  I  shall  go  with  you." 

"As  you  like.  I  shall  leave  hy  the  express  at  five  minutes 
past  nine." 

"  Then  I  shall  bo  at  the  station.  But  at  least  I  may  walk 
home  with  you  1 " 

"  No,  please.  If  you  wish  me  to  think  you  are  sincere, 
— if  you  Avish  us  still  to  be  friends — stay  till  I  have  left  the 
pier. — Good  night." 

He  muttered  a  return,  and  stood  watching  her  as  she 
walked  quietly  away. 

When  it  was  nearly  midnight,  Ida  lay  on  her  bed,  dressed, 
as  she  had  lain  since  her  return  home.  For  more  than  an 
hour  she  had  cried  and  sobbed  in  blank  misery,  cried  as 
never  since  the  bitter  days  long  ago,  just  after  her  mother's 
death.  Then,  the  fit  over,  something  like  a  reaction  of  calm 
followed,  and  as  she  lay  perfectly  still  in  the  darkness,  her 
regular  breathing  would  have  led  one  to  believe  her  asleep. 
But  she  was  only  thinking,  and  indeed  very  far  from  sleep. 
The  long  day  in  the  open  air  had  so  affected  her  eyes  that, 
as  she  looked  up  at  the  ceiling,  it  seemed  to  her  to  be  a  blue 
space,  with  light  clouds  constantly  flitting  across  it.  Pre- 
sently this  impression  became  painful,  and  a  growing  rest- 
lessness made  her  rise.  The  heat  of  the  room  was  stifling, 
for  just  above  was  the  roof,  upon  which  all  day  the  sun  had 
poured  its  rays.  She  threw  open  the  window,  and  drank 
in  the  air.  The  night  was  magnificent,  flooded  with  warm 
moonlight,  and  fragrant  with  sea  breathings.  Ida  felt  an  irre- 
sistible desire  to  leave  the  house  and  go  down  to  the  shore, 
which  she  could  not  see  from  her  window ;  the  tide,  she 
remembered,  would  just  now  be  full,  and  to  walk  by  it  in 
the  solitude  of  midnight  would  bring  her  that  peace  and 
strength  of  soul  she  so  much  needed.  She  put  on  her  hat 
and  cloak,  and  went  downstairs.  The  front  door  was  only 
latched,  and,  as  she  had  her  key,  no  doubt  she  would  be  able 
to  let  herself  in  at  any  hour. 

The  streets  were  all  but  deserted,  and,  when  she  came  to 
the  beach,  no  soul  was  anywhere  visible.  She  walked  to- 
wards the  place  where  she  had  spent  the  afternoon  with 
Waymark,  then  onwards  still  further  to  the  east,  till  there 


THE  MISSING  YEARS  145 

was  but  a  narrow  space  between  the  water  and  the  cliflFs. 
Breakers  there  were  none,  not  more  ripple  at  the  clear  tide- 
edge  than  on  the  border  of  a  little  lake.  So  intense  was  the 
silence  that  every  now  and  then  could  be  distinctly  heard  a 
call  on  one  of  the  fishing-boats  lying  some  distance  from 
shore.     The  town  was  no  longer  in  sight. 

It  was  close  even  here ;  what  little  breeze  there  was 
brushed  the  face  like  the  warm  wing  of  a  passing  bird.  Ida 
dipped  her  hands  in  the  water  and  sprinkled  it  upon  her 
forehead.  Then  she  took  off  her  boots  and  stockings,  and 
walked  with  her  feet  in  the  ripples.  A  moment  after  she 
stopped,  and  looked  all  around,  as  if  hesitating  at  some 
thought,  and  wishing  to  see  that  her  solitude  was  secure. 
Just  then  the  sound  of  a  clock  came  very  faintly  across  the 
still  air,  striking  the  hour  of  one.  She  stepped  from  the 
water  a  few  paces,  and  began  hastily  to  put  off  her  clothing  ; 
in  a  moment  her  feet  were  again  in  the  ripples,  and  she  was 
walking  out  from  the  beach,  till  her  gleaming  body  was 
hidden.  Then  she  bathed,  breasting  the  full  flow  with 
delight,  making  the  sundered  and  broken  water  flash  myriad 
reflections  of  the  moon  and  stars. 


"Waymark  was  at  the  station  next  morning  half  an  hour 
before  train-time.  He  waited  for  Ida's  arrival  before  taking 
his  ticket.  She  did  not  come.  He  walked  about  in  feverish 
impatience,  plaguing  himself  with  all  manner  of  doubt  and 
apprehension.  The  train  came  into  the  station,  and  yet  she 
had  not  arrived.     It  started,  and  no  sign  of  her. 

He  waited  yet  five  minutes,  then  walked  hastily  into  the 
town,  and  to  Ida's  lodgings.  Miss  Starr,  he  was  told,  had 
left  very  early  that  morning ;  if  he  was  Mr.  Waymark,  there 
was  a  note  to  be  delivered  to  him. 

"  I  thought  it  better  that  I  should  go  to  London  by  an 
earlier  train,  for  we  should  not  have  been  quite  at  our  ease 
with  each  other.  I  beg  you  will  not  think  my  leaving  you 
is  due  to  anything  but  necessity — indeed  it  is  not.  I  shall 
not  be  living  at  the  old  place,  but  any  letter  you  send  there 
I  shall  get.  I  cannot  promise  to  reply  at  once,  but  hope 
you  will  let  me  do  so  when  I  feel  able  to.  I.  S." 

Waymark  took  the  next  train  to  town. 


146  THE  UNCLASSED 

CHAPTER   XVIIL 

THE  ENDERBYS. 

Some  twenty  years  before  the  date  we  have  reached,  the 
Rev.  Paul  Enderby,  a  handsome  young  man,  endowed  with 
moral  and  intellectual  qualities  consideralDly  above  the 
average,  lived  and  worked  in  a  certain  small  town  of  York- 
shire, 

He  had  been  here  for  two  years,  an  unmarried  man ;  now 
it  was  made  known  that  this  state  of  things  was  to  come  to 
an  end  ;  moreover,  to  the  disappointment  of  not  a  few  house- 
holds, it  was  understood  that  the  future  Mrs.  Enderby  had 
been  chosen  from  among  his  own  people,  in  London.  The 
lady  came,  and  there  was  a  field-day  of  criticism.  IMrs. 
Enderby  looked  very  young,  and  was  undeniably  pretty ; 
she  had  accomplishments,  and  evidently  liked  to  exhibit 
them  before  her  homely  visitors.  She  exaggerated  the 
refinement  of  her  utterance  that  it  might  all  the  more  strike 
oft'  against  the  local  accent.  It  soon  became  clear  that  she 
would  be  anything  but  an  assistance  to  her  husband  in  his 
parochial  work ;  one  or  two  attempts  were  made,  apparently 
with  good  will,  at  intercourse  with  the  poor  parishioners,  but 
the  enterprise  was  distinctly  a  failure ;  it  had  to  be  defini- 
tively given  up.  Presently  a  child  was  born  in  the  parsonage, 
and  for  a  httle  while  the  young  mother's  attention  was  satis- 
factorily engaged  at  home.  The  chUd  was  a  girl  and  received 
the  name  of  Maud. 

Paul  Enderby  struggled  to  bate  no  jot  of  his  former 
activity,  but  a  change  was  obvious  to  alL  No  less  obvious 
the  reason  of  it.  Mrs.  Enderby's  reckless  extravagance  had 
soon  involved  her  husband  in  gi-eat  difficulties.  He  was 
growing  haggard  ;  his  health  was  failing ;  his  activity  shrank 
within  the  narrowest  possible  limits ;  he  shunned  men's 
gaze. 

Yet  all  at  once  there  happened  sometliing  which  revived 
much  of  his  old  zeal,  and,  in  spite  of  everything,  brought 
him  once  more  prominently  forward.  A  calamity  had  visited 
the  town.  By  a  great  explosion  in  a  neighbouring  colliery, 
numbers  of  homes  had  been  rendered  destitute,  and  aid  of 
every  kind  was  imperatively  called  for  on  aU  sides.      In 


THE  ENDERBYS  147 

former  times,  Paul  Enderby  would  have  been  just  the  man 
for  this  occasion,  and  even  now  he  was  not  wanting. 
Extensive  subscriptions  were  raised,  and  he,  as  chief  man  in 
the  committee  which  had  been  formed,  had  chief  control  of 
the  funds.  People  said  afterwards  that  they  had  often  re- 
marked something  singular  in  his  manner  as  he  went  about 
in  these  duties.  Whether  that  was  true  or  not,  something 
more  than  singular  happened  when,  some  two  months  later, 
accounts  were  being  investigated  and  cleared  up.  Late  one 
evening,  !Mr.  Enderby  left  home, — and  never  returned  to  it. 
It  was  very  soon  known  that  he  must  have  appropriated  to 
his  own  use  considerable  sums  which  had  reached  his  hands 
for  charitable  purposes,  and  the  scandal  was  terrific.  !Mrs. 
Enderby  and  her  child  disappeared  in  a  day  or  two.  It  was 
said  that  ladies  from  London  had  come  and  fetched  her 
away,  and  she  was  no  more  heard  of  in  tliat  little  town. 

Sliss  Bygrave,  an  elder  sister  of  Mrs.  Enderby,  had  re- 
ceived a  letter  from  Paul  summoning  her  to  the  wife's  aid  : 
and  this  letter,  dated  from  Liverpool,  after  disclosing  in  a 
few  words  the  whole  situation,  went  on  to  say  that  the 
writer,  though  he  would  never  more  be  seen  by  those  who 
knew  him,  would  not  fail  to  send  his  wife  what  money  he 
could  as  often  as  he  could.  And,  after  half  a  year,  sums 
had  begun  to  be  remitted,  in  envelopes  bearing  a  Californian 
postmark.  They  were  not  much  use,  however,  to  Mrs. 
Enderby.  A  few  days  after  her  arrival  at  her  home  in 
London,  she  had  been  discovered  hanging,  with  a  rope  round 
her  neck,  from  a  nail  behind  her  bedroom  door.  Cut  down 
in  time,  her  life  was  saved,  but  reason  had  forsaken  her. 
She  was  taken  away  to  an  asylum,  and  remained  there  for 
five  years. 

By  that  time,  she  seemed  to  have  quite  recovered.  Her 
home  was  now  to  be  with  her  sister,  Theresa  Bygrave.  Her 
child,  Maud  Enderby,  was  nearly  seven  years  old.  Mrs. 
Enderby  returned  to  the  world  not  quite  the  same  woman 
as  when  she  left  it.  She  had  never  lacked  character,  and 
this  now  showed  itself  in  one  immutable  resolution.  Having 
found  that  the  child  had  learnt  nothing  of  its  parents,  she 
determined  that  this  ignorance  should  continue ;  or  rather 
that  it  should  be  exchanged  for  the  belief  that  those  parents 
were  both  long  dead.  She  dwelt  apart,  supported  by  her 
sister.  Finally,  after  ten  years'  absence,  Paul  Enderby 
returned  to  England,  and  lived  again  with  his  wife.     But 


148  THE  UNCLASSED 

Maud,  their  daughter,  still  believed  herself  alone   in  the 
world,  save  for  her  aunt,  Miss  Bygrave. 

At  the  time  when  Waymark  and  Ida  were  together  at 
Hastings,  IMrs.  Enderby  called  one  evening  at  Miss  Bygrave's 
house — the  house  of  Maud's  childhood,  still  distinguished 
by  the  same  coldness,  bareness  and  gloom,  the  same  silence 
echoing  to  a  strange  footfall.  Theresa  Bygrave  had  not 
greatly  altered ;  tall,  upright,  clad  in  the  plainest  black  gar- 
ment, she  walked  into  the  room  with  silent  dignity,  and 
listened  to  a  suggestion  made  by  her  brother-in-law. 

"We  have  talked  it  over  again,"  said  Paul,  "and  we 
have  decided  to  take  this  step." 

He  paused  and  watched  the  listener's  face  eagerly,  glancing 
quickly  away  as  soon  as  she  looked  up. 

"  And  you  still  wish  me  to  break  it  to  Maud,  and  in  the 
way  you  said  1 " 

"  If  you  will. — But  I  do  so  wish  you  would  let  me  know 
your  own  thoughts  about  this.  You  have  so  much  claim  to 
be  considered.  Maud  is  in  reality  yours  far  more  than  she 
is  ours.  Will  it— do  you  think  now  it  will  really  be  for 
our  own  happiness?  Will  the  explanation  you  are  able  to 
give  be  satisfactory  to  her?  What  will  be  her  attitude 
towards  us?  You  know  her  character — you  understand 
her." 

"  If  the  future  could  be  all  as  calm  as  the  past  year  has 
been,"  said  Miss  Bygrave,  "  I  should  have  nothing  to  urge 
against  your  wishes." 

"  And  this  will  contribute  to  it,"  exclaimed  Enderby. 
"This  would  give  l<>mily  the  very  siipport  she  needs." 

Miss  Bygrave  looked  into  his  face,  which  had  a  pleading 
earnestness,  and  a  deep  pity  lay  in  her  eyes. 

"  Let  it  be  so,"  she  said  with  decision.  "  I  myself  have 
much  hope  from  Maud's  influence.  I  will  write  and  tell 
her  not  to  renew  her  engagement,  and  she  will  be  with  us 
at  the  end  of  Se])tember." 

"  But  you  will  not  tell  her  anything  till  she  comes  ? " 

"No." 

Miss  Bygrave  lived  in  all  but  complete  severance  from 
the  world.  When  Maud  Enderby  was  at  school,  she  felt 
strongly  and  painfully  the  contrast  between  her  own  home 
life  and  that  of  her  companions.  The  girl  withdrew  into 
solitary  reading  and  thinking  ;  grew  ever  more  afraid  of  the 
world ;  and  by  degrees  sought  more  of  her  aunt's  confidence, 


THE  ENDERBYS  149 

feeling  that  here  was  a  soul  that  had  long  since  attained  to 
the  peace  which  she  was  vainly  seeking. 

But  it  was  with  effort  that  Miss  Bygrave  brought  herself 
to  speak  to  another  of  her  form  of  faith.  After  that  Christ- 
mas night  when  she  addressed  Maud  for  the  first  time  on 
matters  of  religion,  she  had  said  no  second  word  ;  she  waited 
the  effect  of  her  teaching,  and  the  girl's  spontaneous  re- 
currence to  the  subject.  There  was  something  in  the  very 
air  of  the  still,  chill  house  favourable  to  ascetic  gravity.  A 
young  girl,  living  under  such  circumstances,  must  either 
pine  away,  eating  her  own  heart,  or  become  a  mystic,  and 
find  her  daily  food  in  religious  meditation. 

Only  when  her  niece  was  seventeen  years  old  did  Miss 
Bygrave  speak  to  her  of  worldly  affairs.  Her  own  income, 
she  explained,  was  but  just  sufficient  for  their  needs,  and 
would  terminate  upon  her  death  ;  had  Maud  thought  at  all 
of  what  course  she  would  choose  when  the  time  for  decision 
came?  Naturally,  only  one  thing  could  suggest  itself  to 
the  girl's  mind,  and  that  was  to  become  a  teacher.  To  begin 
with,  she  took  subordinate  work  in  the  school  where  she 
had  been  a  pupil ;  later,  she  obtained  the  engagement  at 
Dr.  Tootle's. 

An  education  of  this  kind,  working  upon  Maud  Enderby's 
natural  temperament,  resulted  in  an  abnormal  character,  the 
chief  trait  of  which  was  remarkable  as  being  in  contradiction 
to  the  spirit  of  her  time.  She  was  oppressed  with  the  con- 
sciousness of  sin.  Every  most  natural  impulse  of  her  own 
heart  she  regarded  as  a  temptation  to  be  resisted  with  all 
her  strength.  Her  ideal  was  the  same  as  Miss  Bygrave's, 
but  she  could  not  pursue  it  with  the  latter's  assured  calm ; 
at  every  moment  the  voice  of  her  youth  spoke  within  her, 
and  became  to  her  the  voice  of  the  enemy.  Her  faith  was 
scarcely  capable  of  formulation  in  creeds ;  her  sins  were  not 
of  omission  or  commission  in  the  literal  sense ;  it  was  an 
attitude  of  soul  which  she  sought  to  attain,  though  ever 
falling  away.  What  little  she  saw  of  the  world  in  London, 
and  afterwards  at  her  home  by  the  sea-side,  only  served  to 
increase  the  trouble  of  her  conscience,  by  making  her  more 
aware  of  her  own  weakness.  For  instance,  the  matter  of 
her  correspondence  with  "Waymark.  In  very  truth,  the 
chief  reason  why  she  had  given  him  the  permission  he 
asked  of  her  was,  that  before  so  sudden  and  unexpected 
a  demand  she  found  herself  confused  and  helpless ;  had  she 


I50  THE  UNCLASSED 

been  able  to  reflect,  the  temptation  would  probably  haye 
been  resisted,  for  the  pleasantness  of  the  thought  made  her 
regard  it  as  a  grave  temptation.  Casuistry  and  sophistical 
reasoning  with  her  own  heart  ensued,  to  the  increase  of  her 
morbid  sensitiveness ;  she  persuaded  herself  that  greater 
insight  into  the  world's  evil  would  be  of  aid  in  her  struggle, 
and  so  the  contents  of  Waymark's  first  letter  led  her  to  a 
continuance  of  the  correspondence.  A  power  of  strong  and 
gloomy  description  which  she  showed  in  her  letters,  and 
which  impressed  Waymark,  aiforded  the  key  to  her  suffer- 
ings ;  her  soul  in  reality  was  that  of  an  artist,  and,  whereas 
the  artist  should  be  free  from  everything  like  moral  pre- 
possession, Maud's  aesthetic  sensibilities  were  in  perpetual 
conflict  with  her  moral  convictions.  She  could  not  under- 
stand herself,  seeing  tliat  her  opportunities  had  never  allowed 
her  to  obtain  an  idea  of  the  artistic  character.  This  irre- 
pressible delight  and  interest  in  the  active  life  of  the  world, 
what  could  it  be  but  the  tendency  to  evil,  most  strongly 
developed  1  These  heart-burnings  whenever  she  witnessed 
men  and  women  rejoicing  in  the  exercise  of  their  natural 
affections,  what  could  that  be  but  the  proneness  to  evil  in 
its  grossest  form  1 

It  was  naturally  a  great  surprise  to  Maud  when  she 
received  the  letter  from  her  aunt,  which  asked  her  not  to 
continue  her  engagement  into  the  new  quarter,  giving  as  a 
reason  merely  that  the  writer  wished  for  her  at  home.  It 
was  even  with  something  of  dread  and  shrinking  that  she 
looked  forward  to  a  renewal  of  the  old  life.  Still,  it  was 
enough  that  her  aunt  had  need  of  her.  On  her  return  to 
London,  she  was  met  with  strange  revelations.  Miss  By- 
grave's  story  had  been  agreed  upon  between  herself  and 
Paul.  It  had  been  deemed  best  to  make  Mrs.  Enderby's 
insanity  the  ex})lanation  of  Maud's  removal  from  her  parents, 
and  the  girl,  stricken  as  she  was  with  painful  emotions, 
seemed  to  accept  this  undoubtingly. 

The  five  years  or  so  since  Paul  Enderby's  reappearance  in 
England  seemed  to  have  been  not  un prosperous.  The  house 
to  which  Maud  was  welcomed  by  her  fatlier  and  mother 
was  not  a  large  one,  and  not  in  a  very  fashionable  locality, 
but  it  was  furnished  with  elegance.  jMrs.  Enderby  frequently 
had  her  hired  brougham,  and  made  use  of  it  to  move  about 
a  good  deal  where  people  see  and  are  seen.  Mr.  Enderby's 
business  was  "  in  the  City."     How  he  had  surmounted  his 


THE  ENDERBYS  151 

difficulties  was  not  very  clear ;  his  wife  learned  that  he  had 
brought  with  him  from  America  a  scheme  for  the  utilisation 
of  waste  product  in  some  obscure  branch  of  manufacture, 
which  had  been  so  far  successful  as  to  supply  him  with  a 
small  capital.  He  seemed  to  work  hard,  leaving  home  at 
nine  each  morning,  getting  back  to  dinner  at  half-past  six, 
and,  as  often  as  not,  spending  the  evening  away  from  home, 
and  not  returning  till  the  small  hours.  He  had  the  feverish 
eye  of  a  man  whose  subsistence  depends  upon  specvdative 
aculeness  and  restless  calculation.  No  doubt  he  was  stiU  so 
far  the  old  Paul,  that,  whatever  he  undertook,  he  threw 
himself  into  it  with  surpassing  vigour. 

Mrs.  Enderby  was  in  her  thirty-eighth  year,  and  still 
handsome.  Most  men,  at  all  events,  would  have  called  her 
so,  for  most  men  are  attracted  by  a  face  which  is  long,  deli- 
cate, characterless,  and  preserves  late  the  self-conscious  ex- 
pression of  a  rather  frivolous  girl  of  seventeen.  She  had 
ideals  of  her  own,  which  she  pursued  regardless  of  the 
course  in  which  they  led  her ;  and  these  ideals  were  far 
from  ignoble.  To  beauty  of  all  kinds  she  was  passionately 
sensitive.  As  a  girl  she  had  played  the  piano  well,  and, 
though  the  power  had  gone  from  long  disuse,  music  was 
still  her  chief  passion.  Graceful  ease,  delicacy  in  her  sur- 
roundings, freedom  from  domestic  cares,  the  bloom  of  flowers, 
sweet  scents — such  things  made  up  her  existence.  She 
loved  her  husband,  and  had  once  worshipped  him ;  she 
loved  her  recovered  daughter ;  but  both  affections  were  in 
her,  so  to  speak,  of  aesthetic  rather  than  of  moral  quality. 

Intercourse  between  Maud  and  her  parents,  now  that  they 
lived  together,  was,  as  might  have  been  expected,  not  alto- 
gether natural  or  easy.  She  came  to  tliem  with  boundless 
longings,  ready  to  expend  in  a  moment  the  love  of  a  lifetime  ; 
they,  on  their  side,  were  scarcely  less  full  of  warm  anticipa- 
tion ;  yet  something  prevented  the  complete  expression  of 
this  mutual  yearning.  The  fault  was  not  in  the  father  and 
mother  if  they  hung  back  somewhat ;  in  very  truth.  Maud's 
pure,  noble  countenance  abashed  them.  This,  their  child, 
was  so  much  the  superior  of  tliem  both ;  they  felt  it  from 
the  first  moment,  and  could  never  master  the  consciousness. 
Maud  mistook  this  for  coldness ;  it  checked  and  saddened 
her.  Yet  time  brought  about  better  things,  though  the 
ideal  would  never  be  attained.  In  her  father,  the  girl  found 
much  to  love ;  her  mother  she  could  not  love  as  she  had 


iSa  THE  UNCLASSED 

hoped,  but  she  regarded  her  with  a  vast  tenderness,  often 
with  deep  compassion.  Much  of  symputliy,  moreover,  there 
was  between  these  two.  Maud's  artistic  temperament  was 
inherited  from  her  mother,  but  she  possessed  it  in  a  stronger 
degree,  of  purer  quality,  and  under  greater  restraint.  This 
restraint,  however,  did  not  long  continue  to  be  exercised  as 
hitherto.  Life  for  the  first  time  was  open  before  her,  and 
the  music  which  began  to  fill  her  ears,  the  splendour  which 
shone  into  her  eyes,  gradually  availed  to  still  that  inner 
voice  which  had  so  long  spoken  to  her  in  dark  admonishings. 
She  could  not  resign  herself  absolutely  to  the  new  delight ; 
it  was  still  a  conflict ;  but  from  the  conflict  itself  she  derived 
a  kind  of  joy,  born  of  the  strength  of  her  imagination. 

Yes,  there  was  one  portion  of  the  past  which  dwelt  with 
her,  and  by  degrees  busied  her  thoughts  more  and  more 
The  correspondence  with  Waymark  had  ceased,  and  by  her 
own  negligence.  In  those  days  of  mental  disturbance  which 
preceded  her  return  to  London,  his  last  letter  had  reached 
her,  and  this  she  had  not  replied  to.  It  had  been  her  turn 
to  write,  but  she  had  not  felt  able  to  do  so ;  it  had  seemed 
to  her,  indeed,  that,  with  her  return  home,  the  correspond- 
ence would  naturally  come  to  an  end ;  with  a  strange  igno- 
rance' of  herself,  such  as  now  and  then  darkens  us,  she  had 
suddenly  come  to  attach  little  value  to  the  connection.  Not 
improbably,  Way  mark's  last  two  letters  had  been  forced  and 
lacking  in  interest.  He  had  never  said  anything  which 
could  be  construed  into  more  than  an  expression  of  friendly 
mterest,  or  intellectual  sympathy.  It  may  be  that  Maud'.s 
condition,  dindy  prophetic  of  the  coming  change,  required 
more  than  this,  and  she  conceived  a  certain  dissatisfaction. 
Then  came  the  great  event,  and  for  some  weeks  she  scarcely 
thought  of  her  correspondent.  One  day,  however,  she 
chanced  upon  the  little  packet  of  his  letters,  and  read  them 
through  again.  It  was  with  new  eyes.  Thoughts  spoke  to 
her  which  had  not  been  there  on  the  first  reading.  Way- 
mark  had  touched  at  times  on  art  and  kindred  subjects,  and 
only  now  could  she  understand  his  meaning.  She  felt  that, 
in  breaking  off" her  connection  with  him,  she  had  lost  the  one 
person  who  could  give  her  entire  sympathy ;  to  whom  she 
might  have  spoken  with  certainty  of  being  understood,  of 
all  the  novel  ideas  which  possessed  her  ;  who,  indeed,  would 
have  been  invaluable  as  a  guide  in  the  unknown  land  she 
•was  treading.    It  was  now  ahuost  the  end  of  the  year ;  more 


THE  ENDERBYS  153 

than  three  months  had  gone  by  since  she  received  that  last 
letter  from  him.  Could  she  write  now,  and  let  him  know 
that  she  was  in  Londt)ii  ?  She  could  not  but  give  expres- 
sion to  her  altered  self ;  and  would  he  be  able  to  understand 
her  ?  Yet, — she  needed  him  :  and  there  was  something  of 
her  mother  in  the  fretting  to  which  she  was  now  and  then 
driven  by  the  balked  desire.  At  length  she  was  on  the 
point  of  writing  a  letter,  with  whatever  result,  when  chance 
spared  her  the  trouble. 

One  morning  in  December,  she  went  with  her  mother  to 
an  exhibition  of  pictures  in  Bond  Street.  Such  visits  had 
been  common  of  late ;  Mrs.  Enderby  could  rarely  occupy 
herself  at  home,  and  pictures,  as  everthing  beautiful,  always 
attracted  her.  They  had  been  in  the  gallery  a  few  minutes 
only,  when  Maud  recognised  Waymark  close  at  hand,  lie 
was  looking  closely  at  a  canvas,  and  seemed  quite  unaware 
of  her  proximity.  She  laid  her  hand  on  her  mother's  arm, 
and  spoke  in  a  nervous  whisper. 

"Mother,  I  know  that  gentleman." 

"This  one?"  asked  Mrs.  Enderby,  indicating  Waymark, 
with  a  smile.  She  showed  no  surprise,  any  more  than  she 
would  have  done  had  Maud  been  only  her  friend. 

"  Yes.  If  he  should  notice  me,  may  I  introduce  him  to 
you?     He  was  at  the  school  where  I  tauglit  a  year  ago." 

"Why,  certainly,  my  love,"  replied  her  mother,  with 
cheerful  assent.  "  It  is  quite  natural  that  you  should  have 
acquaintances  I  should  like  to  know.  Shall  I  ask  him  to 
come  and  see  us  ?  " 

There  was  no  opportunity  of  answering.  Waymark,  in 
moving  on,  had  glanced  round  at  the  groups  of  people,  and 
his  eye  had  fallen  on  Maud.  He  seemed  uncertain  ;  looked 
(quickly  away ;  glanced  again,  and,  meeting  her  eyes,  raised 
his  hat,  though  still  without  conviction  in  his  face.  Maud 
came  naturally  forward  a  step  or  two,  and  they  shook  hands  ; 
then  at  once  she  introduced  him  to  her  mother.  No  one 
ever  experienced  awkward  pauses  in  Mrs.  Enderby's  pre- 
sence ;  conversation  linked  itself  with  perfect  ease,  and  in  a 
minute  they  were  examining  the  pictures  together.  Mrs. 
Enderby  had  made  ujj  her  mind  with  regard  to  her  new 
acquaintance  in  one  or  two  gleams  of  her  quick  eyes,  and 
then  talked  on  in  an  eager,  intelligent  way,  full  of  contagious 
enthusiasm,  which  soon  l)rought  out  Waymark's  best  powers. 
Maud  said  very  little.    Whenever  it  was  possible  unobserved, 


154  THE  UNCLASSED 

she  gazed  at  Waymark's  face.  She  found  herself  thinking 
that,  in  external  appearance,  he  had  improved  since  she  last 
saw  him.  He  had  no  longer  that  hungry,  discontented  look 
to  which  she  had  grown  accustomed  in  the  upper  schoolroom 
at  Dr.  Tootle's ;  his  eye  seemed  at  once  quieter  and  keener ; 
his  complexion  was  brighter ;  the  habitual  frown  had  some- 
what smoothed  away.  Then,  he  was  more  careful  in  the 
matter  of  dress.  On  the  whole,  it  seemed  probable  that  his 
circumstances  had  changed  for  the  better. 

Waymark,  on  his  side,  whilst  he  talked,  was  not  less  full 
of  speculation  about  Maud.  For  the  change  in  her  appear- 
ance was  certainly  much  more  noticeable  than  it  could  be  in 
his  own.  Not  only  that  she  had  put  aside  her  sad-coloured 
and  poor  raiment  for  a  costume  of  tasteful  and  attractive 
simplicity — this,  of  course,  her  mother's  doing — but  the 
look  of  shrinking,  almost  of  fear,  which  he  had  been  wont 
to  see  on  her  face,  was  entirely  gone.  Her  eyes  seemed  for 
ever  intelligent  of  new  meanings  ;  she  was  pale,  but  with  the 
pallor  of  eager,  joy-bringing  thought.  There  was  something 
pathetic  in  this  new-born  face  ;  the  lips  seemed  stiU  to  speak 
of  past  sorrows,  or,  it  might  be,  to  hold  unspoken  a  sad  fate 
half-foreseen. 

If  this  renewal  of  acquaintanceship  came  just  at  the  right 
time  for  Maud,  it  was  no  less  welcome  to  Waymark.  When 
he  wrote  his  last  letter  to  her,  it  had  proceeded  more  from  a 
sense  of  obligation  than  any  natural  impulse.  For  he  was 
then  only  just  recovering  from  a  period  of  something  like 
despair.  His  pursuit  of  Ida  Starr  to  London  had  been  fruit- 
less. It  was  true  that  she  had  left  her  former  abode,  and 
the  landlady  profes.sed  to  be  ignorant  of  her  new  one,  though 
.slie  admitted  that  she  had  seen  Ida  scarcely  two  hours  before 
Waymark's  arrival.  He  wrote,  but  had  no  reply.  His  only 
comfort  was  an  ever-rising  suspicion  of  the  truth  (as  he 
would  learn  it  later),  but  fears  were,  on  the  whole,  strongest 
within  him.  Confidence  in  her  he  had  not.  All  the  retlec- 
tions  of  that  last  evening  on  Hastings  pier  lived  and  re-lived 
in  his  mind ;  outcome  of  the  cynicism  which  was  a  marked 
feature  in  his  development,  and  at  the  same  time  tending  to 
confirm  it.  She  had  been  summoned  back  suddenly  by  a 
letter;  who  but  a  simpleton  could  doubt  what  that  meant  1 
He  thought  of  Sally,  of  course,  and  the  step  she  had  taken ; 
but  could  he  draw  conclusions  about  Ida  from  Sally,  and 
did  ever  two  such  instances  come  within  a  man's  experience  1 


She  was  beautifuJ  in  her  eveiiiug  dress. — Page  155 


THE  ENDERBYS  155 

To  Sally  herself  he  had  naturally  had  recom'se,  but  in  vain. 
She  said  that  she  knew  nothing  of  the  lost  girl.  So  Way- 
mark  fought  it  out,  to  the  result  of  weariness  ;  then  plunged 
into  his  work  again,  and  had  regained  very  much  his  ordinary 
state  of  mind  when  Maud  Enderby  unexpectedly  came  be- 
fore him. 

He  called  upon  the  Enderbys,  and  was  soon  invited  to 
dine,  which  necessitated  the  purchase  of  a  dress  suit.  On  the 
appointed  evening,  he  found  Maud  and  her  mother  in  a  little 
drawing-room,  which  had  a  pleasant  air  of  ease  and  refine- 
ment. It  was  a  new  sensation  for  Waymark  as  he  sank  into 
a  soft  chair,  and,  in  speaking,  lowered  his  voice,  to  suit  the 
quietness  of  the  room.  The  soft  lamp-light  spreading  through 
the  coloured  shade,  the  just  preceptible  odour  of  scent  when 
Mrs.  Enderby  stirred,  the  crackling  of  the  welcome  fire,  fiUed 
him  with  a  sense  of  luxury  to  which  he  was  not  accustomed. 
He  looked  at  Maud.  She  was  beautifid  in  her  evening  dress  ; 
and,  marking  the  grave,  sweet  thoughtfulness  of  her  face, 
the  grace  of  her  movements,  the  air  of  purity  which  clung 
about  her,  his  mind  turned  to  Ida  Starr,  and  experienced  a 
shock  at  the  comparison.  Where  was  Ida  at  this  moment? 
The  mere  possibilities  which  such  a  question  brought  before 
his  mind  made  him  uneasy,  almost  as  if  he  had  forgotten 
liiniself  and  uttered  aloud  some  word  all  unfit  for  ladies'  ears. 
The  feeling  was  a  novel  one,  and,  in  afterwards  recalling 
it,  he  could  smile  rather  contemptuously.  If  we  are  en- 
ra[)tured  with  one  particular  flower,  shall  we  necessarily 
despise  another,  whose  beauty  and  perfume  happen  to  be  of 
quite  a  difierent  kind? 

Mr.  I'lnderby  appeared,  followed  by  another  gentleman. 
Waymark  noticed  an  unpleasant  heat  in  the  hand  held  out 
to  him ;  there  was  a  flush  in  Paul's  cheeks,  too,  and  his  eyes 
were  very  bright.  He  greeted  the  visitor  with  somewhat 
excessive  warmth,  then  turned  and  introduced  his  com- 
panion, by  the  name  of  Mr.  Rudge. 

Waymark  observed  that  this  gentleman  and  his  hostess 
were  on  terms  of  lively  intimacy.  They  talked  much 
throughout  the  evening, 

During  the  three  months  that  followed,  Waymark's  inter- 
course with  the  Enderbys  was  pretty  frequent.  Mrs.  Enderby 
asked  few  questions  about  him,  and  Maud  was  silent  after 
she  had  explained  Waymark's  position,  so  far  as  she  was 
acquainted  with  it,  and  how  she  had  come  to  know  him. 


IS6  THE  UNCLASSED 

To  both  parents,  the  fact  of  Maud's  friendship  was  a  quite 
sufficient  guarantee,  so  possessed  were  they  with  a  conviction 
of  the  trustworthiness  of  her  judgment,  and  the  moral  value 
of  her  impulses.  In  Waymark's  character  there  was  some- 
thing which  women  found  very  attractive ;  strength  and  in- 
dividuality are  perhaps  the  words  that  best  express  what  it 
was,  though  these  qualities  would  not  in  themselves  have 
sufficed  to  give  him  his  influence,  without  a  certain  grace- 
fulness of  inward  homage  which  manifested  itself  when  he 
talked  with  women,  a  suggestion,  too,  of  underlying  passion 
which  works  subtly  on  a  woman's  imagination.  There  was 
nothing  commonplace  in  his  appearance  and  manner ;  one 
divined  in  him  a  past  out  of  the  ordinary  range  of  experi- 
ences, and  felt  the  promise  of  a  future  which  would,  in  one 
way  or  another,  be  remarkable. 

The  more  Waymark  saw  of  Maud  Enderby  the  more  com- 
pletely did  he  yield  to  the  fascination  of  her  character.  In 
her  presence  he  enjoyed  a  strange  calm  of  spirit.  For  the 
first  time  he  knew  a  woman  who  by  no  word  or  look  or 
motion  could  stir  in  him  a  cynical  thought.  Here  was  some- 
thing higher  than  himself,  a  nature  which  he  had  to  confess 
transcended  the  limits  of  his  judgment,  a  soul  with  insight 
possibly  for  ever  denied  to  himself.  He  was  often  pained  by 
the  deference  with  which  she  sought  his  opinion  or  counsel ; 
the  words  in  which  he  replied  to  her  sounded  so  hollow ;  he 
became  so  often  and  so  keenly  sensible  of  his  insincerity, — 
a  quality  which,  with  others,  he  could  consciously  rely  upon 
as  a  resource,  but  which,  before  Maud,  stung  him.  He  was 
driven  to  balance  judgments,  to  hesitate  in  replies,  to  search 
his  own  heart,  as  perhaps  never  before. 

Artificial  good  humour,  affected  interest,  mock  sympathy, 
were  as  far  from  her  as  was  the  least  taint  of  indelicacy ; 
every  word  she  uttered  rang  true,  and  her  very  phrases  had 
that  musical  fall  which  only  associates  itself  with  beautiful 
and  honest  thought.  She  never  exhibited  gaiety,  or  a  spirit 
of  fun,  but  could  raise  a  smile  by  an  exquisite  shade  of 
humour — humour  which,  as  the  best  is,  was  more  than  half 
sadness.  Nor  was  she  fond  of  mixing  with  people  whom 
she  did  not  know  well ;  when  there  was  company  at  dinner, 
she  generally  begged  to  be  allowed  to  dine  alone.  Though 
always  anxious  to  give  pleasure  to  her  parents,  she  was 
most  happy  when  nothing  drew  her  from  her  own  room; 
there  she  would  read  and  dream  through  hours,      There 


IN  THE  MEANTIME  157 

were  times  when  the  old  dreaded  feelings  took  revenge; 
night-wakings,  when  she  lay  in  cold  anguish,  yearning  for 
the  dawn.  She  was  not  yet  strong  enough  to  face  past  and 
future,  secured  in  attained  conviction.  As  yet,  she  could 
not  stir  beyond  the  present,  and  in  the  enjoyment  of  the 
present  was  her  strength. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

IN     THE     MEANTIME 

It  was  one  Wednesday  evening  in  early  April,  that 
Waymark  found  a  letter  awaiting  him,  addressed  in  a  hand 
he  at  once  recognised. 

"  Will  you  come  and  see  me  1  I  am  at  home  after  eight 
o'clock  till  the  end  of  the  week,  and  all  day  on  Sunday. 

"I.  S." 

No  distinct  pleasure  was  aroused  in  Waymark  as  he  read 
this.  As  was  always  the  case  for  hours  after  he  had  left 
Maud's  presence,  her  face  and  voice  lived  with  him  to  tlie 
exclusion  of  every  other  thought.  There  was  even  some- 
thing of  repulsion  in  the  feeling  excited  by  his  thus  having 
the  memory  of  Ida  brought  suddenly  before  him ;  her  face 
came  as  an  unwelcome  intruder  upon  the  calm,  grave  mood 
which  always  possessed  him  on  these  evenings.  In  returning 
home  each  W^ednesday  night,  Waymark  always  sought  the 
speediest  and  quietest  route,  unwilling  to  be  brought  in  con- 
tact with  that  life  of  the  streets  which  at  other  times  delighted 
him.  Ida's  note  seemed  a  summons  from  that  world  which, 
for  the  moment,  he  held  at  a  distance.  But  the  call  was  not 
to  be  silenced  at  his  will.  He  began  to  wonder  about  her 
life  during  the  past  half-year.  Why  had  she  written  just 
now,  after  so  long  a  silence  ?  Where,  and  under  what  cir- 
cumstances, should  he  meet  her  1  Did  she  think  to  find 
him  the  same  as  when  they  last  talked  together? 

Through  the  night  he  woke  constantly,  and  always  with 
thoughts  busy  about  Ida.  In  the  morning  his  first  impulse 
was  to  re-read  her  message ;  received  so  carelessly,  it  had  in 
the  meantime  become  of  more  account,  and  Waymark 
laughed  in  his  wonted  way  as  he  saw  himself  thus  swayed 
between  forces  he  could  not  control.     The  ordinary  day's 


1S8  THE  UNCLASSED 

task  was  neglected,  and  he  impatiently  waited  for  the  hour 
when  he  could  be  sure  of  finding  Ida  at  home.  The  address 
was  at  Fulham,  aud,  on  reaching  it,  he  found  a  large  new 
block  of  the  kind  known  as  model  lodging-houses.  Ida's 
number  was  up  at  the  very  top.  When  he  knocked,  the 
door  opened  immediately,  and  she  stood  there,  holding  out 
her  hand  to  him. 

She  wore  the  same  dress  that  she  had  worn  at  Hastincs, 
but  the  gold  brooch  and  watch-chain  were  missing,  and  her 
hair  was  arranged  in  a  simpler  way.  She  was  a  trifle  pale, 
perhaps,  but  that  might  be  due  to  the  excitement  of  the 
moment ;  her  voice  shook  a  little  as  she  spoke. 

Waymark  looked  about  him  as  he  went  in.  There 
appeared  to  be  two  rooms,  one  of  them  a  very  small  bed- 
room, the  other  fitted  with  a  cooking-grate  and  oven ;  the 
kind  of  tenement  suitable  to  very  poor  working-people. 
The  floors  were  bare,  and  there  was  nothing  in  the  way  of 
furniture  beyond  the  most  indispensable  articles :  a  table, 
two  chairs,  and  a  few  cups,  saucers,  and  plates  on  a  shelf ; 
through  the  half-open  door,  he  saw  that  the  bed-room  was 
equally  plain.  A  fire  was  burning,  and  a  kettle  on  it ;  and 
in  front,  on  a  little  square  piece  of  carpet,  lay  Ida's  insepar- 
able friend,  Grim.  Grim  had  lifted  his  head  at  Waymark's 
entrance,  and,  with  gathering  curiosity  in  his  eyes,  slowly 
stood  up ;  then  stretched  himself,  and,  looking  first  at  one, 
then  at  the  other,  waited  in  doubt. 

Ida  stooped  and  took  him  up  in  her  arms. 

"  And  who's  this  ? "  she  asked,  talking  to  him  as  one  talks 
to  a  child,  whilst  she  pressed  his  warm  black  cheek  against 
her  own.  "Does  Grim  remember  who  this  is?  We  still 
keep  together,"  she  added,  looking  at  Waymark.  "  All  day 
long,  whilst  I'm  away,  he  keeps  house ;  I'm  often  afraid  he 
sutlers  dreadfully  from  loneliness,  but,  you  see,  I'm  obliged 
to  lock  him  in.  And  he  knows  exactly  the  time  when  I 
come  home.  I  always  find  him  sitting  on  that  chair  by  the 
door,  waiting,  waiting,  oh  so  patiently  !  And  I  often  bring 
him  back  something  nice,  don't  I,  Grimmy?  You  shoidd 
see  how  delighted  he  is  as  soon  as  I  enter  the  door." 

Ida  was  changed,  and  in  many  ways.  She  seemed  to 
have  grown  younger ;  in  her  voice  and  manner  there  was  a 
girlishness  which  was  quite  new  to  Waymark.  Her  motions 
were  lighter  and  nimbler;  there  was  no  longer  that  Aovr 
grace  of  step  and  carriage  which  had  expressed  absolute 


IN  THE  MEANTIME  159 

leisure,  and  with  it  had  gone,  perhaps,  something  of  dignity, 
which  used  to  sit  so  well  upon  her.  She  laughed  from  time 
to  time  in  a  free,  careless  way ;  formerly  she  seldom  did 
more  than  smile.  In  the  old  days,  there  was  nothing  ahout 
her  suggestive  of  what  are  called  the  domestic  virtues  ;  now 
she  seemed  perfectly  at  home  amid  these  simple  surroundings, 
and,  almost  as  soon  as  her  visitor  had  sat  down,  she  busied 
herself  in  laying  the  table  in  a  quick,  ready  way,  which 
came  of  the  habit  of  waiting  upon  herself. 

"You'll  have  a  cup  of  tea  with  me?"  she  said,  looking 
at  Way  mark  with  the  curiosity  which  seemed  to  show  that 
she  also  found  something  changed  in  him.  "I  only  get 
home  about  eight  o'clock,  and  this  is  the  quietest  and 
plcasantest  meal  in  the  day  for  me." 

"  What  do  you  do  all  day,  then  1 "  Waymark  asked,  soften- 
ing the  bluntness  of  his  question  with  a  smile. 

She  stepped  near  to  him,  and  held  out  her  hands  for  him 
to  look  at ;  then,  as  he  met  her  eyes  again,  laughed  merrily. 

"  Do  you  guess  1 "  she  asked. 

"  I  believe  I  can.  You  have  gone  back  to  the  laundry 
again  r' 

"  Yes." 

"And  how  long  is  it  since  you  did  so?  " 

"  How  long  is  it  since  we  last  saw  each  other  ?  '* 

"  Did  you  begin  at  once  when  you  returned  to  London  1 " 

"Yes." 

Waymark  kept  silence,  whilst  Ida  poured  out  a  cup  of  tea 
for  him,  and  then  took  her  seat  at  the  table. 

"  Don't  you  think  I'm  comfortable  here  % "  Ida  said. 
"  It's  like  having  a  house  of  my  own.  I  see  nothing  of  the 
other  peojile  in  the  building,  and  feel  independent." 

"Did  you  buy  the  furniture  yourself?" 

"  Yes  ;  just  the  things  I  couldn't  do  without.  I  pay  only 
three-and-sixpence  a  week,  and  so  long  as  I  can  earn  that, 
I'm  sure  at  all  events  of  a  home,  where  I  can  be  happy  or 
miserable,  as  I  please." 

"Waymark  wondered.  There  was  no  mistaking  the 
genuineness  of  her  tone.  What,  then,  had  been  the  reason 
for  this  astonishing  change,  a  change  extending,  it  would 
seem,  almost  to  temperament  1  What  intermediate  phases 
had  led  up  to  this  result?  He  wished  to  ask  her  for  an 
explanation,  but  to  do  so  would  be  to  refer  to  the  condition 
she  had  left,  and  that  he  did  not  wish  to  do.     All  would 


i6o  THE  UNCLASSED 

no  doubt  explain  itself  as  they  talked ;  in  the  meantime  she 
told  him  how  her  days  were  ordered,  and  the  details  of 
her  life. 

"Have  you  brought  your  pipe?"  she  asked,  when  they 
had  drank  their  tea. 

"May  I  smoke?" 

"  Of  course, — ^just  as  you  used  to." 

"But  it  is  not  the  same,"  Waymark  said,  half  to  himself. 

"Are  you  sorry  for  the  change?"  Ida  asked,  as  she 
handed  him  a  box  of  matches. 

"  "What  induced  you  to  make  it  ? " 

"  Oh,  I  have  strange  fancies.  The  idea  came,  just  like 
others  do.     Are  you  sorry  ? " 

"The  opposite.  Did  the  idea  come  whilst  we  were  at 
Hastings?" 

"Before  that.  Do  you  remember  my  telling  you  that  I 
had  a  letter  calling  me  back  to  London  ? " 

Waymark  nodded. 

"  It  was  from  the  laundry,  to  say  I  could  go  to  work  as 
soon  as  I  liked." 

"  And  why  didn't  you  tell  me  that? " 

Ida  seemed  about  to  reply,  but  altered  her  intention,  and, 
after  being  silent  for  a  moment,  asked  another  question. 

"  Did  you  think  you  would  ever  hear  from  me  ? " 

"I  had  given  up  hope." 

"And  did  you  wonder  what  had  become  of  me?" 

"  Often.     Why  didn't  you  write  before  ? " 

"I  wasn't  ready." 

"What  does  that  mean?"  Waymark  asked,  looking 
closely  at  her. 

"Perhaps  I  shall  be  able  to  explain  some  day.  If  not, 
well,  it  won't  matter." 

"  And  will  you  let  me  see  you  often  1 "  said  Waymark, 
after  thinking  a  little.  "  Are  we  to  be  friends  again,  as  we 
used  to  be?" 

"  If  you  would  care  for  it." 

Waymark  turned  away  as  their  eyes  met. 

"Certainly  I  should  care  for  it,"  he  said,  feeling  all  at 
once  a  difficulty  in  speaking  naturally.  Then  he  looked  at 
Ida  again ;  she  was  bending  down  and  stroking  Grim's  ears. 
There  was  rather  a  long  silence,  which  Waymark  at  length 
forced  himself  to  break. 

"  Shall  I  bring  you  books  again  ? "  he  said. 


IN  THE  MEANTIME  i6i 

"I  have  very  little  time  for  reading,"  was  Ida's  reply. 
"  It's  better,  perhaps,  that  it  is  so." 

"  But  why  ? " 

"  Perhaps  it  would  make  me  discontented  with  my  work, 
and  want  all  sorts  of  things  I  couldn't  have." 

"You  have  your  Sundays  free?"  Waymark  said,  after 
another  rather  long  silence. 

"Yes." 

"  Then  we  must  have  some  expeditions  again,  now  that  the 
line  days  have  come.     By  the  by,  do  you  ever  see  Sally  ? " 

Ida  looked  up  with  a  smile  and  said,  "  Yes ;  do  you  1 " 

"  No  ;  but  I  hear  of  her." 

'*  From  your  friend  ? " 

"Yes,  from  O'Gree." 

"  Do  your  other  friends  still  live  near  you  ? "  Ida  asked, 
speaking  quickly,  as  if  to  interrupt  what  Waymark  was 
about  to  say. 

"TheCastis?     Oh  yes." 

"What  is  Mrs.  Casti  like?"  she  said,  in  a  tone  which 
attracted  Waymark's  attention. 

"Well,"  he  replied,  "it's  difficult  to  describe  her. 
There's  nothing  very  good  about  her,  and  I  suppose  nothing 
very  bad.     I  see  little  of  her  now  ;  she's  almost  always  ill." 

"  What's  the  matter  with  her  ?  " 

"  Can't  say  ;  general  weakness  and  ill  health,  I  think  ? " 

"But  she's  so  young,  isn't  she?  Has  she  friends  to  go 
and  see  her  ? " 

"Very  few,  I  think." 

"It  must  be  dreadful  to  be  like  that,"  said  Ida,  "I'm 
thankful  that  I  have  my  health,  at  all  events.  Loneliness 
isn't  so  hard  to  bear,  as  it  must  be  in  illness." 

"Do  you  feel  lonely?" 

"  A  little,  sometimes,"  said  Ida.  "  But  it's  ungrateful  to 
poor  old  Grim  to  say  so." 

"Have  you  no  acquaintances  except  the  people  you  work 
with?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  And  you  don't  read  ?  Wouldn't  you  like  to  go  on  read- 
ing as  you  used  to?  You  have  a  better  head  than  most 
women,  and  it's  a  pity  not  to  make  use  of  it.  That's  all 
nonsense  about  in  making  you  discontented.  You  won't 
always  be  living  like  this,  I  su])pose." 

"  Why  not  ? "  Ida  asked  simply. 

h 


i62  THE  UNCLASSED 

"  Well,"  said  Way  mark,  without  meeting  her  look,  "  even 
if  you  do,  it  will  be  gain  to  you  to  cultivate  your  mind  1 " 

"  Do  you  wish  me  to  cultivate  my  mind  ? " 

"  You  know  I  do." 

Waymark  seemed  uneasy.  He  rose  and  leaned  against 
the  mantelpiece. 

"  I  will  do  whatever  you  bid  me,"  Ida  said.  "  I  can  get 
an  hour  or  so  each  night,  and  I  have  all  Sunday." 

Waymark  felt  only  too  well  the  effect  of  the  tone  he  was 
adopting.  The  situation  was  by  this  time  clear  enough  to 
him,  and  his  own  difficidties  no  less  cloar.  He  avoided 
looking  at  Ida  as  much  as  he  could.  A  change  had  again 
come  over  her  manner ;  the  girlishness  was  modilicd,  the 
old  sadder  tone  was  audihle  at  moments. 

"If  it's  fine  on  Sunday,"  he  said,  "will  you  go  with  me 
to  Kichmond,  and  let  us  have  dinner  at  the  old  place  ? " 

"  No,"  was  Ida's  reply,  with  a  smile,  "  I  can't  afford  it." 

"  But  I  invite  you.  Of  course  I  didn't  mean  that  it 
should  he  any  expense." 

She  still  shook  her  head. 

"  No,  I  must  take  my  own  share,  wherever  we  go." 

"  Then  I  shall  certainly  refuse  your  cup  of  tea  next  time 
I  come,"  said  Waymark  jestingly. 

"That's  quite  different,"  said  Ida.  "But  if  you  like,  we 
can  go  in  the  afternoon,  and  walk  about  Eoehampton ;  that 
I  can  afford." 

"As  you  please.     When  shall  I  call  for  yout" 

"  Half-past  one." 

She  opened  the  door  for  him,  and  held  out  her  hand. 
Their  eyes  did  not  meet  as  they  said  good-bye.  The  door 
closed,  and  Waymark  went  so  slowly  down  the  stone  steps 
that  he  seemed  at  every  moment  on  the  point  of  stopping 
and  turning  back. 


CHAPTEK  XX 

A.  SUGGESTION 

Waymark  and  Julian  Casti  were  sitting  together  in  the 
former's  room.  It  was  Saturday  evening — two  days  after 
Waymark's  visit  to  Ida.  Julian  had  fallen  into  a  sad 
reverie. 


A  SUGGESTION  163 

"How  is  your  wifet"  asked  his  friend,  after  watching 
the  melancholy  face  for  a  while. 

"  She  said  her  headache  was  worse  to-night." 

"  Curiously,"  observed  "Waymark,  with  a  little  acidity, 
"it  always  is  when  you  have  to  leave  home." 

Julian  looked  up,  and  seemed  to  reach  a  crisis  in  his 
thoughts. 

"  Waymark,"  he  began,  reddening  as  he  still  always  did 
when  greatly  moved,  "  I  fear  I  have  been  behaving  very 
foolishly.  Many  a  time  I  have  wished  to  speak  out  to  you 
plainly,  but  a  sort  of  delicacy — a  wrong  kind  of  delicacy, 
I  think — prevented  me.  I  can't  keep  this  attitude  any 
longer.  I  must  tell  you  how  things  are  going  on,  and  you 
must  give  me  what  help  you  can.  And  perhaps  I  shall  be 
telling  you  what  you  already  know  1 " 

"I  have  suspected." 

"Where  is  the  blame V  Julian  broke  out,  with  sudden 
vehemence.  "  I  cannot  think  that  ever  husband  was  more 
patient  and  more  indulgent  than  I  have  been.  I  have  re- 
fused her  nothing  that  my  means  could  possibly  obtain.  I 
have  given  up  all  the  old  quiet  habits  of  my  life  that  she 
mightn't  think  I  slighted  her  ;  I  scarcely  ever  open  a  book 
at  home,  knowing  that  it  irritates  her  to  see  me  reading ; 
I  do  my  best  to  amuse  her  at  all  times.  How  does  she 
reward  me?  For  ever  she  grumbles  that  I  can't  perform 
impossibilities, — take  her  to  theatres,  buy  her  new  dresses, 
procure  for  her  friends  and  acquaintances.  My  wishes,  ex- 
pressed or  understood,  weigh  with  her  less  than  the  least  of 
her  own  caprices.  She  wantonly  does  things  which  she 
knows  will  cause  me  endless  misery.  Her  companions  are 
gross  and  depraved  people,  who  constantly  drag  her  lower 
and  lower,  to  their  own  level.  The  landlady  has  told  me 
that,  in  my  absence,  women  have  called  to  see  her  who 
certainly  ought  not  to  enter  any  decent  house.  When  I 
entreat  her  to  give  up  such  associates,  her  only  answer  is  to 
accuse  me  of  selfishness,  since  I  have  friends  myself,  and 
yet  won't  permit  her  to  have  any.  And  things  have  gone 
from  bad  to  worse.  Several  nights  of  late,  when  I  have 
got  home,  she  has  been  away,  and  has  not  returned  till 
much  after  midnight.  Hour  after  hour  I  have  sat  there 
in  the  extremest  misery,  waiting,  waiting,  feeling  as  though 
my  brain  would  burst  with  its  strain  !  I  have  no  idea  where 
she  goes  to.     If  I  ask,  she  only  retQ?t«i  by  asking  me  where 


i64  THE  UNCLASSED 

I  spend  the  nights  when  I  am  with  you,  and  laughs  con- 
temptuously when  I  tell  her  the  truth.  Her  suspicions  and 
jealousy  are  incessant,  and  torture  me  past  endurance.  Once 
or  twice,  I  confess,  I  have  lost  patience,  and  have  spoken 
angrily,  too  angrily ;  then  she  has  accused  me  of  brutal  dis- 
regard of  her  sufferings.  It  would  hurt  me  less  if  she 
pierced  me  with  a  knife.  Only  this  morning  there  was 
a  terrible  scene ;  she  maddened  me  past  endurance  by  her 
wretched  calumnies — accusmg  me  of  I  know  not  what  dis- 
graceful secrets — and  when  words  burst  from  me  involun- 
tarily, she  fell  into  hysterics,  and  shrieked  till  all  the  people 
in  the  house  ran  up  in  alarm.  Can  you  understand  what 
this  means  to  one  of  my  temperament  1  To  have  my  private 
affairs  forced  upon  strangers  in  this  way  tortures  me  with 
the  pains  of  hell.  I  am  naturally  reticent  and  retiring- — too 
much  so,  I  dare  say — and  no  misery  could  have  been  devised 
for  me  more  dreadful  than  this.  Her  accusations  are  atrocious, 
such  as  could  only  come  from  a  grossly  impure  mind,  or  at 
the  suggestion  of  vile  creatures.  You  she  hates  Avith  a  rabid 
hatred — God  only  knows  why.  She  would  hate  any  one 
who  was  my  friend,  and  whose  society  relieved  me  for  a 
moment  from  my  ghastly  torments  ! " 

He  ceased  for  very  exhaustion,  so  terribly  did  the  things 
he  described  work  upon  him. 

"  What  am  I  to  do,  Waymark  ?    Can  you  give  me  advice  1" 

Wayraark  had  listened  with  his  eyes  cast  down,  and  he 
was  silent  for  some  time  after  Julian  ceased. 

"  You  couldn't  well  ask  for  advice  in  a  more  difficult 
case,"  he  said  at  length.  "There's  nothing  for  it  but  to 
strengthen  yourself  and  endure.  Force  yourself  into  work. 
Try  to  forget  her  when  she  is  out  of  sight." 

"  But,"  broke  in  Julian,  "  this  amounts  to  a  sentence  of 
death  !  What  of  the  life  before  me,  of  the  years  I  shall 
have  to  spend  with  her  1  Work,  forget  myself,  forget  her, 
— that  is  just  what  I  cannot  do !  My  nerves  are  getting 
weaker  every  day ;  I  am  beginning  to  have  fits  of  trembling 
and  horrible  palpitation  ;  my  dreams  are  hideous  with  vague 
apprehensions,  only  to  be  realised  when  I  wake.  Work ! 
Half  my  misery  is  caused  by  the  thought  that  my  work  is 
at  an  end  for  ever.  It  is  all  forsaking  me,  the  delight  of 
imagining  great  things,  what  power  I  had  of  putting  my 
fancies  into  words,  the  music  that  used  to  go  with  me 
through  the  day's  work.     It  is  long  since  I  wrote  a  line 


A  SUGGESTION  165 

of  verse.  Quietness,  peace,  a  calm  life  of  thought,  these 
things  are  what  I  7nust  have ;  I  thought  I  should  have  them 
in  a  higher  degree  than  ever,  and  I  find  they  are  irretrievably 
lost.  I  feel  my  own  weakness,  as  I  never  could  before. 
When  you  bid  me  strengthen  myself,  you  tell  me  to  alter 
my  character.  The  resolution  needed  to  preserve  the  better 
part  of  my  nature  through  such  a  life  as  this,  will  never  be 
within  my  reach.  It  is  fearful  to  think  of  what  I  shall 
become  as  time  goes  on.  I  dread  myself  !  There  have 
been  revealed  to  me  depths  of  passion  and  misery  in  my 
own  heart  which  I  hud  not  suspected.  I  shall  lose  all  self- 
control,  and  become  as  selfish  and  heedless  as  she  is." 

"  No,  you  will  not,"  said  Waymark  encouragingly.  "  This 
crisis  will  pass  over,  and  strength  will  be  developed.  We 
have  a  wonderful  faculty  for  accommodating  ourselves  to 
wretchedness ;  how  else  would  the  world  have  held  together 
so  long  1  When  you  begin  to  find  your  voice  again,  maybe 
you  won't  sing  of  the  dead  world  any  longer,  but  of  the 
living  and  sulFering.  Your  thoughts  were  fine  ;  they  showed 
you  to  be  a  poet ;  but  I  have  never  hidden  from  you  how  I 
wished  that  you  had  been  on  my  side.  Art,  nowadays,  must 
be  the  mouthpiece  of  misery,  for  misery  is  the  key-note  of 
modern  life." 

They  talked  on,  and  Julian,  so  easily  moulded  by  a  strong 
will,  became  half  courageous. 

*'  One  of  her  reproaches,"  he  said,  "  is  just ;  I  can't  meet 
it.  If  I  object  to  her  present  companions  it  is  my  duty  to 
find  her  more  suitable  ones.  She  lives  too  much  alone. 
No  doubt  it  is  every  husband's  duty  to  provide  his  wife  with 
society.  But  how  am  I  to  find  it  ?  I  am  so  isolated,  and 
always  have  been.  I  know  not  a  soul  who  could  be  a  friend 
to  her." 

Waymark  grew  thoughtful,  and  kept  silent. 

"  One  person  I  know,"  he  said  presently,  and  in  a  cautious 
way,  "who  might  perhaps  help  you." 

"  You  do  1 "  cried  Julian  eagerly. 

"  You  know  that  I  make  all  sorts  of  queer  acquaintances 
in  my  wanderings.  Well,  I  happen  to  know  a  girl  of  about 
your  wife's  age,  who,  if  she  were  willing,  would  be  just  the 
person  you  want.  Slie  is  quite  alone,  parentless,  and  almost 
without  friends.  She  lives  by  herself,  and  supports  herself 
by  working  in  a  laundry.  For  all  this,  she  is  by  no  means 
the  ordinary  London  work-girl ;  you  can't  caU  her  educated, 


i66  THE  UNCLASSED 

but  she  speaks  purely,  and  has  a  remarkably  good  intelli- 
gence. I  met  her  by  chance,  and  kept  up  her  acquaintance. 
There  has  been  nothing  wrong — bah  !  how  conventional  one 
is,  in  spite  of  oneself  ! — I  mean  to  say  there  has  been  nothing 
more  than  a  pleasant  friendship  between  us ;  absolutely 
nothing.  We  see  each  other  from  time  to  time,  and  have  a 
walk,  perhaps  a  meal,  together,  and  I  lend  her  books.  Now, 
do  you  think  there  would  be  any  way  of  getting  your  wife 
to  accept  her  society,  say  of  an  evening  now  and  then  1 
Don't  do  anything  rash ;  it  is  of  course  clear  that  yon  must 
have  no  hand  in  this.  I  must  manage  it  if  it  is  to  be  done. 
Naturally,  I  can't  answer  at  once  for  the  girl's  readiness ; 
but  I  l)elieve  she  would  do  what  I  asked  her  to.  Do  you 
think  it  is  worth  entertaining,  this  idea  1 " 

"  I  do,  indeed ;  it  would  be  salvation,  I  really  believe." 

"  Don't  be  too  sanguine,  Casti ;  that's  another  of  your 
faults.  Still,  I  know  very  well  that  this  girl  could  cure 
your  wife  of  her  ill  propensities  if  any  living  creature  could. 
She  is  strong  in  character,  admirably  clear-headed,  mild, 
gentle,  womanly ;  in  fact,  there  is  perhaps  no  one  1  respect 
so  much,  on  the  whole." 

"  Respect,  only  1 "  asked  Julian,  smiling. 

"  Ye-es ;  yes,  I  believe  I  am  perfectly  honest  in  saying  so, 
though  I  couldn't  have  been  so  sure  about  it  some  little  time 
ago.  Our  relations,  no  doubt,  are  peculiar  ;  on  her  side  there 
is  no  more  warmth  than  on  mine  " — Waymark  tried  so  to 
believe — "  and  indeed  her  clear  sight  has  no  doubt  gauged 
me  fairly  well  at  my  true  value." 

"What  is  her  name?" 

"Ida  Starr." 

"  What ! "  cried  Julian  startled.  "  That  is  a  strange 
thing!  You  have  noticed  the  scar  on  Harriet's  fore- 
head?" 

"Well?" 

"  Why,  it  was  a  wound  given  her  at  school  by  a  girl  of 
that  very  name  !  I  remember  the  name  as  well  as  possible. 
It  was  a  blow  with  a  slate  dealt  in  passion — some  quarrel  or 
other.  They  were  both  children  then,  and  Ida  Starr  left  the 
school  in  consequence." 

"  Is  it  possible  that  it  is  the  same  person  ? "  asked  Way- 
mark,  wondering  and  reflecting. 

"  If  so,  that  puts  a  new  difficulty  in  our  way." 

"Eemoves  one,  I  should  have  thought," 


A  SUGGESTION  167 

"  Harriet  is  not  of  a  very  forgiving  nature,"  said  Julian 

gravely. 

"  I  shouldn't  have  supposed  she  was ;  but  a  long  time  has 
gone  by  since  then,  and,  after  all,  one  is  generally  glad  to  see 
an  old  school-fellow." 

At  this  point  the  conversation  was  interrupted  by  a  knock 
at  the  door,  followed  by  the  announcement  that  a  gentleman 
named  O'Gree  wished  to  see  'Mi.  Waymark.  Waymark 
smiled  at  Julian. 

"  Don't  run  away,"  he  said.  "  You  ought  to  know  O'Gree 
in  the  flesh." 

The  teacher  came  into  the  room  with  a  rush,  and  was 
much  taken  aback  at  the  sight  of  a  stranger  present.  Per- 
spiration was  streaming  profusely  from  his  face,  which  was 
aglow  with  some  great  intelligence.  After  being  introduced 
to  Casti,  he  plunged  down  on  a  chair,  and  mopped  liiuitieif 
with  his  handkerchief,  uttering  incoherencies  about  the  state 
of  tlie  weather.  Waymark  made  an  effort  to  bring  about  a 
general  conversation,  but  failed ;  O'Gree  was  so  preoccupied 
that  any  remark  addressed  to  him  had  to  be  repeated  beftire 
he  understood  it,  and  Julian  was  in  no  mood  for  making  new 
acquaintances.  So,  in  a  few  minutes,  the  latter  took  his  hat 
and  left,  "Waymark  going  with  him  to  tlie  door  to  speak  a 
few  words  of  encouragement. 

"  The  battle's  won  ! "  cried  O'Gree,  with  much  gesticula- 
tion, as  soon  as  Waymark  returned.  "The  campaign's  at 
an  end ! — I'm  sorry  if  I've  driven  your  friend  away,  but  I 
was  bound  to  tell  you. " 

"  All  right.  Let  me  have  a  description  of  the  manoeuvres." 

"  Look  here,  my  boy,"  said  O'Gree,  with  sudden  solemnity, 
"  you've  never  been  very  willing  to  talk  to  me  about  her. 
yow,  before  I  tell  you  anything,  I  want  to  know  this. 
Whij  wouldn't  you  tell  me  how  you  first  got  to  know  her, 
and  so  on  ? " 

"  Before  I  answer,  I  want  to  know  this  :  have  you  found 
out  why  I  wouldn't?" 

"Yes,  I  have — that  is,  I  suppose  I  have — and  from  her 
own  lips,  too !  You  knew  her  when  she  lived  near  the 
Strand  there,  eh  1 " 

"  I  did." 

"  Well  now,  understand,  my  boy.  I  don't  want  to  heir 
anything  disagreeable ;  in  fact,  I  won't  listen  to  anything 
disagreeable ; — all  I  want  to  know  is,  whether  I  may  safely 


i68  THE  UNCLASSED 

tell  you  what  she  has  told  me.  If  you  don't  know  it  already, 
there's  no  need  to  talk  of  it." 

"I  understand,  and  I  don't  think  you  can  tell  me  any- 
thing I'm  not  well  aware  of." 

"  Sure,  then,  I  will  tell  you,  and  if  there's  another  girl  as 
brave  and  honest  as  Sally  in  all  this  worruld,  I'll  be  obliged 
if  you'll  make  me  acquainted  with  her !  Well,  you  know 
she  has  a  Saturday  afternoon  otf  every  month.  It  hasn't 
been  a  very  cheerful  day,  but  it  couldn't  be  missed;  and,  as 
it  was  too  rainy  to  walk  about,  I  couldn't  think  of  any 
better  place  to  go  to  than  the  British  Museum.  Of  course  I 
wanted  to  find  a  quiet  corner,  but  there  were  people  about 
everywhere,  and  the  best  we  could  manage  was  in  the 
mummy-room.  We  looked  at  all  the  mummies,  and  I  told 
her  all  I  knew  about  them,  and  I  kept  thinking  to  myself : 
Now,  how  can  I  work  round  to  it  ?  I've  tried  so  often,  you 
know,  and  she's  always  escaped  me,  somehow,  and  I  couldn't 
help  thinking  it  was  because  I  hadn't  gone  about  it  in  the 
proper  way.  Well,  we'd  been  staring  at  a  mummy  for  about 
a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  neither  of  us  said  anything,  when 
all  at  once  a  rare  idea  came  into  my  head.  '  Sally,'  I  said, 
glancing  round  to  see  that  there  was  no  one  by,  *  that 
mummy  was  very  likely  a  pretty  girl  like  you,  once.'  '  Do 
you  think  so  ? '  she  said,  with  that  look  of  hers  which  makes 
me  feel  like  a  galvanic  battery.  '  I  do,'  I  said,  '  and  what's 
more,  there  may  once  have  been  another  mummy,  a  man- 
mummy,  standing  by  her  just  as  I  am  standing  by  you,  and 
wanting  very  much  to  ask  her  something,  and  shaking  in  his 
shoes  for  fear  he  shouldn't  get  tlie  right  answer.'  '  Did  the 
mummies  wear  shoes  when  they  were  alive  1 '  she  asked,  all 
at  once.  '  Wear  shoes ! '  I  cried  out.  '  I  can't  tell  you, 
Sally ;  but  one  thing  I  feel  very  sure  of,  and  that  is  that 
they  had  hearts.  Now,  suppose,'  I  said,  '  we're  those  two 
mummies — '  '  I'm  sure  it's  bad  luck  ! '  interrupted  Sally. 
'  Oh  no,  it  isn't,'  said  I,  seeing  something  in  her  face  which 
made  me  think  it  was  the  opposite.  '  Let  me  go  on.  Now, 
suppose  the  one  mummy  said  to  the  other,  "  Sally — " ' 
'  Were  the  girl-mummies  called  Sally  1 '  she  interrupted 
again.  '  Sure  I  can't  say,'  said  I,  '  but  we'll  suppose  so. 
Well,  suppose  he  said,  "  Sally  if  I  can  hit  on  some  means  of 
making  a  comfortable  home  here  by  the  Nile, — that's  to  say, 
the  Thames,  you  know, — will  you  come  and  keep  it  in  order 
for  me,  and  live  with  me  for  all  the  rest  of  our  lives?' 


A  SUGGESTION  169 

Xow  what  do  you  think  the  girl  -  mummy  would  have 
answered : ' " 

Waymark  laughed,  but  O'Gree  had  become  solemn. 

"  She  didn't  answer  at  once,  and  there  was  something 
very  queer  in  her  face.  All  at  once  she  said,  '  What  has 
Mr.  Waymark  told  you  about  meV  *  Why,  just  nothing  at 
all,'  I  said,  rather  puzzled.  '  And  do  you  know,'  she  asked 
then,  without  looking  at  me,  '  what  sort  of  a  girl  I  am  ? ' 
Well,  all  at  once  there  came  something  into  my  head  that 
I'd  never  thought  of  before,  and  I  was  staggered  for  a 
moment ;  I  couldn't  say  anything.  But  I  got  over  it.  '  I 
don't  want  to  know  anything,'  I  said.  '  All  I  know  is,  that 
I  like  you  better  than  I  ever  shall  any  one  else,  and  I  want 
you  to  promise  to  be  my  wife,  some  day.'  '  Then  you  must 
let  me  tell  you  all  my  story  first,'  she  said.  '  I  won't  answer 
tiU  you  know  everything.'  And  so  she  told  me  what  it 
seems  you  know.  Well,  if  I  thought  much  of  her  before,  I 
thought  a  thousand  times  as  much  after  that !  And  do  you 
know  what?  I  believe  it  was  on  my  account  that  she  went 
and  took  that  place  in  the  shop." 

"Precisely,"  said  Waymark. 

"  You  think  so  t "  cried  the  other,  delighted. 

"  I  guessed  as  much  when  she  met  me  that  day  and  said 
I  might  let  you  know  where  she  was." 

"Ha  !  "  exclaimed  O'Gree,  with  a  long  breath. 

"  And  so  the  matter  is  settled  1 " 

"  All  but  the  most  important  part  of  it.  There's  no  chance 
of  my  being  able  to  marry  for  long  enough  to  come.  Now, 
can  you  give  me  any  advice?  I've  quite  made  up  my  mind 
to  leave  Tootle.  The  position  isn't  worthy  of  a  gentleman  ; 
I'm  losing  my  self-respect.  The  she-Tootle  gets  worse  and 
worse.  If  I  don't  electrify  her,  one  of  these  days,  with  an 
outburst  of  ferocious  indignation,  she  will  only  have  my 
patience  to  thank.  Let  her  beware  how  she  drives  the  lion 
to  bay!" 

"  Couldn't  you  get  a  non-resident  mastership  ?  " 

"  I  must  try,  but  the  pay  is  so  devilish  small." 

"  We  must  talk  the  matter  over." 


170  THE  UNCLASSED 

CHAPTER  XXI 

DIPLOMACY 

WAYSfARK  had  a  good  deal  of  frank  talk  with  himself  before 
meeting  Ida  again  on  the  Sunday.  Such  conversation  was, 
as  we  know,  habitual.  Under  the  circumstances,  however, 
he  felt  tliat  it  behoved  him  to  become  especially  clear  on 
one  or  two  points ;  never  mind  what  course  he  might  ulti- 
mately pursue,  it  was  always  needful  to  him  to  dissect  his 
own  motives,  that  he  might  at  least  be  acting  with  full 
consciousness. 

One  thing  was  clear  enough.  The  fiction  of  a  mere 
friendship  between  himself  and  Ida  was  impossible  to  sup- 
port. It  had  been  impossible  under  the  very  different  cir- 
cumstances of  a  year  ago,  and  was  not  likely  to  last  a  week, 
now  that  Ida  could  so  little  conceal  how  her  own  feelings 
had  changed.  What,  then,  was  to  be  their  future  1  Could 
he  accept  her  love,  and  join  their  lives  without  legal  bond, 
thinking  only  of  present  happiness,  and  content  to  let  things 
arrange  themselves  as  they  would  in  the  years  to  come  ? 

His  heart  strongly  opposed  such  a  step.  Clearly  Ida  had 
changed  her  life  for  his  sake,  and  was  undergoing  hardships 
in  the  hope  of  winning  his  respect  as  well  as  his  love. 
Would  she  have  done  all  this  without  something  of  a  hope 
that  she  might  regain  her  place  in  the  every-day  world,  and 
be  held  by  Waymark  worthy  to  become  his  wife  ?  He  could 
not  certainly  know,  but  there  was  little  doubt  that  this  hope 
had  led  her  on.  Could  he  believe  her  capable  of  yet  nobler 
ideas  ;  could  he  think  that  only  in  reverence  of  the  sanctity 
of  love,  and  without  regard  to  other  things,  she  had  acted 
in  this  way ;  then,  regarding  her  as  indeed  his  equal,  he 
would  open  his  heart  to  her  and  speak  somewhat  in  this 
way.  "  Yes,  I  do  love  you ;  but  at  the  same  time  I  know 
too  well  the  uncertainty  of  love  to  go  through  the  pretence 
of  binding  myself  to  you  for  ever.  Will  you  accept  my 
love  in  its  present  sincerity,  neither  hoping  nor  fearing, 
knowing  that  whatever  happens  is  beyond  our  own  control, 
feeling  with  me  that  only  an  ignoble  nature  can  descend  to  the 
affectation  of  union  when  the  real  links  are  broken?"  Could 
Waymark  but  have  felt  sure  of  her  answer  to  such  an  appeal, 


DIPLOMACY  171 

it  would  have  gone  far  to  make  his  love  for  Ida  all-engrossing. 
She  would  then  be  his  ideal  woman,  and  his  devotion  to  her 
would  have  no  bounds. 

But  he  felt  too  strongly  that  in  thus  speaking  he  would 
sadden  her  by  the  destruction  of  her  great  hope.  On  the 
other  hand,  to  offer  to  make  her  his  legal  wife  would  be  to 
do  her  a  yet  greater  injustice,  even  had  he  been  willing  to 
so  sacrifice  himself.  The  necessity  for  legal  marriage  would 
be  a  confession  of  her  inferiority,  and  the  sense  of  being 
thus  bound  would,  he  well  knew,  be  the  surest  means  of 
weakening  his  affection.  This  all'ection  he  could  not  trust. 
How  far  was  it  mere  passion  of  the  senses,  which  gratifica- 
tion would  speedily  kUl  ? 

In  the  case  of  his  feeling  towards  Maud  Enderby  there 
was  no  such  doubt.  Never  was  his  blood  so  cabn  as  in  her 
presence.  She  was  to  him  a  spirit,  and  in  the  spirit  he 
loved  her.  With  ilaud  he  might  look  forward  to  union  at 
some  distant  day,  a  union  outwardly  of  the  conventional 
kind.  It  would  be  so,  not  on  account  of  any  inferiority  to 
his  ideal  hi  Maud,  for  he  felt  that  there  was  no  height  of 
his  own  thought  whither  she  would  not  in  time  follow  him ; 
but  simply  because  no  point  of  principle  would  demand  a 
refusual  of  the  yoke  of  respectability,  with  its  attendant 
social  advantages.  And  the  thought  of  thus  binding  him- 
self to  Maud  had  nothing  repulsive,  for  the  links  between 
them  were  not  of  the  kind  which  easily  yield,  and  loyalty  to 
a  higher  and  nobler  nature  may  well  be  deemed  a  duty. 

So  far  logical  arguing.  But  the  fact  remained  that  he 
had  not  the  least  intention  of  breaking  off  his  intercourse 
with  Ida,  despite  the  certainty  that  passion  would  grow 
upon  him  with  each  of  their  meetings,  rendering  their 
mutual  relations  more  and  more  dangerous.  Of  only  one 
thing  could  he  be  sure  :  marriage  was  not  to  be  thought  of. 
It  remained,  then,  that  he  was  in  dan.,'er  of  being  led  into 
conduct  which  would  be  the  source  of  grievous  unrest  to 
himself,  and  for  Ida  would  lay  the  foundation  of  much 
suffering.  Wayniark  was  honest  enough  in  his  self-com- 
miining  to  admit  that  he  could  not  trust  himself.  Gross 
deception  he  was  incapable  of,  but  he  would  not  answer  for 
it  that,  the  temptation  pressing  him  too  hard,  he  might  not 
be  guilty  of  allowing  Ida  to  think  his  love  of  more  worth 
than  it  really  was.  She  knew  liis  contempt  of  conventional 
ties,  and  her  faith  in  him  would  keep  her  from  pressing  him 


172  THE  UNCLASSED 

to  any  step  he  disliked ;  she  would  trust  him  without  that. 
And  such  trust  would  be  unmerited. 

It  Was  significant  that  he  did  not  take  into  account  loyalty 
to  Maud  as  a  help  in  resisting  this  temptation.  He  was  too 
sure  of  himself  as  regarded  that  purer  love ;  Itt  what  might 
happen,  his  loyalty  to  Maud  would  be  unshaken.  It  was 
independent  of  passion,  and  passion  could  not  shake  it. 

Then  came  the  subject  of  the  proposed  acquaintance  be- 
tween Ida  and  Mrs.  Casti.  An  impulse  of  friendship  had 
led  to  his  conceiving  the  idea ;  together,  perhaps,  with  the 
recollection  of  what  Ida  had  said  about  her  loneliness,  and 
the  questions  she  had  asked  about  Mrs.  Casti.  Waymark 
had  little  doubt  that  those  questions  indicated  a  desire 
to  become  acquainted  with  his  friends ;  the  desire  was 
natural,  under  the  circumstances.  Still,  he  regi-etted  what 
he  had  done.  To  introduce  Ida  to  his  friends  would  be 
almost  equivalent  to  avowing  some  conventional  relations 
between  her  and  himself.  And,  in  the  next  place,  it  would 
be  an  obstacle  in  the  way  of  those  relations  becoming  any- 
thing but  conventional.  Well,  and  was  not  this  exactly  the 
kind  of  aid  he  needed  in  pursuing  the  course  which  he  felt 
to  be  right  ?     Truly  ;  yet 

At  this  point  Waymark  broke  into  that  half  contemptuous, 
half  indulgent  laugh  which  so  frequently  interrupted  his 
self-communings,  and,  it  being  nearly  one  o'clock,  set  out  to 
call  for  Ida.  The  day  was  fine,  and,  when  they  left  the 
steamer  at  Putney,  they  walked  on  to  the  heath  in  good 
spirits  and  with  cheerful  talk.  To  be  with  Ida  under  these 
circumstances,  in  the  sunlight  and  the  fresh  breeze,  was  very 
different  from  sitting  with  her  yonder  in  the  little  room, 
with  the  lamp  burning  on  the  table,  and  the  quietness  of 
night  around.  The  calm  pleasure  of  passionless  intercourse 
was  realised  and  sufficing.  Ida,  too,  seemed  content  to  enjoy 
the  moment ;  there  was  not  that  wistfulness  in  her  eyes 
which  had  been  so  new  to  him  and  so  strong  in  its  influence. 
It  was  easy  to  find  indifferent  subjects  of  conversation,  and 
to  avoid  the  seriousness  which  would  have  been  fatal. 

When  they  had  found  a  pleasant  spot  to  rest  awhile 
before  turning  back,  Waymark  made  up  his  mind  to  fulfil 
his  promise  to  Julian. 

"  It's  rather  strange,"  he  said,  "  that  you  should  have 
been  asking  me  questions  about  Mrs.  Casti.  Since  theax  I've 
discovered  that  you  probably  know  her,  or  once  did." 


DIPLOMACY  173 

Ida  looked  surprised. 

"Do  you  remember  once  having  a  schoolfellow  called 
Harriet  Smales ?" 

"  Is  that  her  name  ? " 

"  It  was,  before  her  marriage." 

Ida  became  grave,  and  thought  for  some  moments  before 
speaking  again. 

"  Yes,  I  remember  her,"  she  said,  "  and  not  pleasantly." 

"  You  wouldn't  care  to  renew  her  acquaintance  then  ? " 
said  Waymark,  half  glad,  in  spite  of  himself,  that  she  spoke 
in  this  way. 

Ida  asked,  with  earnestness,  how  he  had  made  this  dis- 
covery. Waymark  hesitated,  but  at  length  told  the  truth. 
He  explained  that  Mrs.  Casti  suffered  from  the  want  of  com- 
panionship, and  that  he  had  mentioned  Ida's  name  to  Julian ; 
whence  the  discovery. 

"  Has  she  been  told  about  me  ? "  asked  Ida. 

"  Nothing  was  to  be  said  till  I  had  spoken  to  you." 

Waymark  paused,  but  presently  continued  in  a  more 
serious  tone.  In  recurring  to  that  conversation  with  Julian, 
his  friend's  trouble  spoke  strongly  to  him  once  more,  and 
overcame  selfish  thoughts. 

"I  said  that  I  had  come  to  know  you  by  chance,  and 
that — strange  as  it  might  sound — we  were  simply  friends." 
He  glanced  for  an  instant  at  Ida ;  her  eyes  were  turned  to 
the  ground.  "  You  will  believe  me,"  he  went  on  quickly, 
"  when  I  tell  you  that  I  really  said  nothing  more  ?  " 

"  I  never  doubt  a  word  of  yours,"  was  Ida's  quiet  reply. 

"Casti  was  overjoyed  at  the  thought  of  finding  such  a 
friend  for  his  wife.  Of  course  I  told  him  that  he  must  not 
certainly  count  either  on  your  consent  or  on  his  wife's. 
Hers  I  thought  to  be  perhaps  more  doubtful  than  yours." 

"  Could  I  really  be  of  any  use  to  her,"  asked  Ida,  after  a 
silence,  "  with  so  little  free  time  as  I  have  1 " 

"  Supposing  she  would  welcome  you,  I  really  believe  you 
could  be  of  great  use.  She  is  a  strange  creature,  miserably 
weak  in  body  and  mind.  If  you  could  get  to  legard  this  as 
a  sort  of  good  work  you  were  called  upon  to  undertake,  you 
would  very  likely  be  little  less  than  an  angel  of  mercy  to 
both  of  them.  Casti  is  falling  into  grievous  unhappiness — 
why,  you  will  understand  sufficiently  if  you  come  to  know 
them." 

"  Do  you  think  she  bears  malice  against  me  ? " 


X74  THE  UNCLASSED 

"Of  that  I  know  nothing.  Casti  said  she  had  never 
spokon  of  you  in  that  way.  B3'-the-by,  she  still  has  a  scar 
on  her  forehead,  I  often  wondered  how  it  came  there." 

Ida  winced. 

*'  What  a  little  termagant  you  must  have  been ! "  ex- 
claimed Waymark,  laughing.  "  How  hard  it  is  to  fancy 
you  at  that  age,  Ida. — What  was  the  quarrel  all  about  1" 

"  I  can't  speak  of  it,"  she  replied,  in  a  low,  sad  voice. 
"  It  is  so  long  ago  ;  and  I  want  to  forget  it" 

Waymark  kept  silence. 

"  Do  you  wish  me  to  be  her  friend  1 "  Ida  asked,  suddenly 
looking  up. 

"  Certainly  not  if  you  dislike  the  thought." 

"No,  no.  But  you  think  it  would  be  doing  good?  you 
would  like  me  to  help  your  friend  if  I  ean?" 

"  Yes,  I  should,"  was  Waymark's  reply. 

"  Then  I  hope  she  will  be  willing  to  let  me  go  and  sec 
her.  I  wiU  do  my  very  best.  Let  us  lose  no  time  in  trying. 
It  is  such  a  strange  thing  that  we  should  meet  again  in  this 
way  ;  perhaps  it  is  something  more  than  chance." 

Waymark  smiled. 

"  You  think  I  am  superstitious  1 "  she  asked  quickly. 
"  I  often  feel  so.  I  have  all  sorts  of  hopes  and  faiths  that 
you  would  laugh  at." 

Ida's  thoughts  were  busy  that  night  with  the  past  and 
the  future.  The  first  mention  of  Harriet's  name  had  given 
her  a  shock ;  it  brought  back  with  vividness  the  saddest 
moments  of  her  Hfe ;  it  awoke  a  bitter  resentment  which 
mere  memory  had  no  longer  kept  the  power  to  revive. 
That  was  only  for  a  moment,  however.  The  more  she 
accustomed  herself  to  the  thought,  the  easier  it  seemed  to 
be  to  bury  the  past  in  forgiveness.  Harriet  must  have 
changed  so  much  since  those  days.  Possibly  there  would 
never  be  a  mention  between  them  of  the  old  trouble ;  practi- 
cally they  woidd  be  new  acquaintances,  and  would  be  very 
little  helped  to  an  understanding  of  each  other  by  the  recol- 
lections of  childhood.  And  then  Ida  felt  there  was  so  much 
to  be  glad  of  in  the  new  prospects.  She  longed  for  a  world 
more  substantial  than  that  of  her  own  imaginations,  and 
here,  as  she  thought,  it  would  be  opened  to  her.  Above  all, 
by  introducing  her  to  his  friends,  Waymark  had  strengthened 
the  relations  between  her  and  himself.  He  was  giving  her, 
too,  a  chance  of  showing  herself  to  him  in  a  new  light.    For 


DIPLOMACY  175 

the  first  time  he  would  see  her  under  the  ordinary  conditions 
of  a  woman's  life  in  a  home  Qircle.  Ida  had  passed  from 
one  extreme  to  the  other.  At  present  there  was  nothing 
she  desired  so  much  as  the  simple,  conventional,  every-day 
existence  of  the  woman  who  has  never  swerved  from  the 
beaten  track.  She  never  saw  a  family  group  anywhere  with- 
out envying  the  happiness  which  to  her  seemed  involved 
in  the  mere  fact  of  a  home  and  relations.  Her  isolation 
weighed  heavily  upon  her.  If  there  were  but  some  one  who 
could  claim  her  services,  as  of  right,  and  in  return  render 
her  the  simple  hum-drum  aflection  which  goes  for  so  much 
in  easing  the  burden  of  life.  She  Avas  weary  of  her  solitary 
herf>isiu,  though  she  never  regarded  it  as  heroism,  but  merely 
as  the  jiath  in  which  she  was  naturally  led  by  her  feelings. 
Waymark  could  not  but  still  think  of  her  very  much  in  the 
old  light,  and  she  wished  to  prove  to  him  how  completely 
she  was  changed.  The  simple  act  of  making  tea  for  him 
when  he  came  to  see  her  had  been  a  pleasure ;  it  was 
domestic  and  womanly,  and  she  had  often  glanced  at  his 
face  to  see  whether  he  noticed  it  at  aU.  Then  the  fact  of 
Harriet's  being  an  invalid  would  give  her  many  opportunities 
for  showing  that  she  could  be  gentle  and  patient  and  ser- 
viceable. Casti  would  observe  these  things,  and  doubtless 
would  speak  of  them  to  Waymark.  Thinking  in  this  way, 
Ida  became  all  eagerness  for  the  new  friendship.  There  was 
of  course  the  possibility  that  Harriet  would  refuse  to  accept 
her  oti'eved  kindness,  but  it  seemed  very  unlikely,  and  the 
disaj>pointment  would  be  so  great  that  she  could  not  bear 
to  dwell  on  the  thought.  Waymark  had  promised  to  come 
as  soon  as  he  had  any  news.  The  time  would  go  very 
slowly  till  she  saw  him. 

Waymark  had  met  Harriet  very  seldom  of  late.  Julian 
spent  reguLirly  one  evening  a  week  with  him,  but  it  was 
only  occasionally  that  Waymark  paid  a  visit  in  turn.  He 
knew  that  he  was  anything  but  welcome  to  Mrs.  Casti,  who 
of  course  had  neither  interest  nor  understanding  for  the  con- 
versation between  himself  and  Julian.  Formerly  he  had 
now  and  then  tried  his  best  to  find  some  common  subject 
for  talk  with  her,  hut  the  effort  had  been  vain ;  she  was 
hopelessly  stupid,  and  more  often  than  not  in  a  surly  mood, 
which  made  her  mere  presence  difficult  to  be  endured.  Of 
late,  whenever  he  came,  she  made  her  illness  an  excuse 
for  remaining  in  her  bed-room.     And  hence  arose  another 


176  THE  UNCLASSED 

trouble.  The  two  rooms  were  only  divided  by  folding  daa-s, 
and  when  Harriet  got  impatient  with  what  she  conceived 
to  be  the  visitor's  undue  stay,  she  would  rap  on  the  doors, 
to  summon  Julian  to  her.  This  rapping  would  take  place 
sometimes  six  or  seven  times  in  half  an  hour,  till  Waymark 
hastened  away  in  annoyance.  And  indeed  there  was  little 
possibility  of  conversing  in  Julian's  own  room.  Julian  sat 
for  ever  in  a  state  of  nervous  apprehension,  dreading  the 
summons  which  was  sure  to  come  before  long.  When  he 
left  the  room  for  a  moment,  in  obedience  to  it,  Waymark 
could  hear  Harriet's  voice  speaking  in  a  peevish  or  ill- 
tempered  tone,  and  Julian  would  return  pale  with  agitation, 
unable  to  utter  consecutive  words.  It  was  a  little  better 
when  the  meeting  was  at  Waymark's,  but  even  then  Julian 
was  anything  but  at  his  ease.  He  would  often  sit  for  a 
long  time  in  gloomy  silence,  and  seldom  could,  even  affect 
his  old  cheerfulness.  The  change  which  a  year  had  made 
in  him  was  painful.  His  face  was  growing  haggard  with 
ceaseless  anxiety.  The  slightest  unexpected  noise  made 
him  start  nervously.  His  old  enthusiasms  were  dying  away. 
His  daily  work  was  a  burden  which  grew  more  and  more 
oppressive.  He  always  seemed  weary,  alike  in  body  and  mind. 
Harriet's  ailments  were  not  of  that  unreal  kind  which 
hysterical  women  often  affect,  for  the  mere  sake  of  demand- 
ing sympathy,  though  it  was  certain  she  made  the  most  of 
them.  The  scrofulous  taint  in  her  constitution  was  declar- 
ing itself  in  many  ways.  The  most  serious  symptoms  took 
the  form  of  convulsive  fits.  On  Julian's  return  home  one 
evening,  he  had  found  her  stretched  upon  the  floor,  un- 
conscious, foaming  at  the  mouth,  and  struggling  horribly. 
Since  then,  he  had  come  back  every  night  in  agonies  of 
miserable  anticipation.  Her  illness,  and  his  own  miseries, 
were  of  course  much  intensified  by  her  self-willed  habits. 
When  she  remained  away  from  home  till  after  midnight, 
Julian  was  always  in  fear  lest  some  accident  had  happened 
to  her,  and  once  or  twice  of  late  she  had  declared  (whether 
truly  or  not  it  was  impossible  to  say)  that  she  had  had  fits 
in  the  open  street.  Weather  made  no  difference  to  her ; 
she  would  leave  home  on  the  pretence  of  making  necessary 
purchases,  and  would  come  back  drenched  with  rain.  Pro- 
test availed  nothing,  save  to  irritate  her.  At  times  her  con- 
duct was  so  utterly  unreasonable  that  Julian  looked  at  her 
as  if  to  see  whether  she  had  lost  her  senses.     Ajid  all  this 


DIPLOMACY  177 

he  bore  with  a  patience  which  few  could  have  rivalled. 
Moments  there  were  when  she  softened,  and,  in  a  burst 
of  hysterical  weeping,  begged  him  to  forgive  her  for  some 
unusual  violence,  pleading  her  illness  as  the  cause ;  and  so 
sensible  was  he  to  compassion,  that  he  always  vowed  in  his 
mind  to  bear  anything  rather  than  deal  harshly  with  her. 
Love  for  her,  in  the  true  sense,  he  had  never  felt,  but  his 
pity  often  led  him  to  effusions  of  tenderness  which  love 
could  scarcely  have  exceeded.  He  was  giving  up  every- 
thing for  her.  Through  whole  evenings  he  would  sit  by 
her,  as  she  lay  in  pain,  holding  her  hands,  and  talking  in 
a  way  which  he  thought  would  amuse  or  interest  her. 

"  You're  sorry  you  married  me,"  she  would  often  say  at 
such  times.     "  It's  no  good  saying  no  ;  I'm  sure  you  are." 

That  always  made  Julian  think  of  her  father,  and  of  his 
own  promise  always  to  be  a  friend  to  the  poor,  weak,  ailing 
creature ;  and  he  strengthened  himself  in  his  resolution  to 
bear  everything. 

Waymark  decided  that  he  would  venture  on  the  step  of 
going  to  see  Harriet  during  the  daytime,  whilst  Julian  was 
away,  in  order  to  speak  of  Ida.  This  he  did  on  the  Monday, 
and  was  lucky  enough  to  find  her  at  home.  She  was 
evidently  surprised  at  his  visit,  and  perhaps  still  more  so  at 
the  kind  and  friendly  way  in  which  he  began  to  speak  to 
her.  In  a  few  minutes  he  had  worked  round  to  his  subject. 
He  had,  he  said,  a  friend,  a  young  lady  who  was  very  lonely, 
and  for  whom  he  wanted  to  find  an  agreeable  companion. 
It  had  occurred  to  him  that  perhaps  he  might  ask  to  be 
allowed  to  introduce  her.  Waymark  had  concluded  that 
this  would  probably  be  the  best  way  of  putting  it ;  Harriet 
would  perhaps  be  flattered  by  being  asked  to  confer  the 
favour  of  her  acquaintance.  And  indeed  she  seemed  so ; 
there  was  even  something  like  a  momentary  touch  of  colour 
in  her  pale  cheek. 

"  Does  Julian  know  her  ?  "  she  asked,  fixing  her  eyes  on 
his  with  the  closest  scrutiny. 

"No,  he  does  not." 

He  would  leave  her  to  what  conclusion  she  liked  about 
his  relations  to  Ida ;  in  reality  that  mattered  little. 

"She  is  some  one,"  he  went  on,  "for  whom  I  have  a 
great  regard.  As  I  say,  she  has  really  no  friends,  and  she 
earns  her  own  living.  I  feel  sure  you  would  find  her  com- 
pany pleasant ;  she  is  sensible  and  cheerful,  and  would  be 

M 


178  THE  UNCLASSED 

very  grateful  for  any  kindness  you  showed  her.     Her  name, 
by-the-by,  is  Ida  Starr." 

"Ida  Starr?" 

*'  Is  the  name  familiar  to  you  t " 

"  I  used  to  know  some  one  called  that." 

"  Indeed  1  How  strange  it  would  be  if  you  knew  her 
already.  I  have  spoken  to  her  of  you,  but  she  didn't  tell 
me  she  knew  your  name." 

"  Oh  no,  she  wouldn't.  It  was  years  and  years  ago.  We 
used  to  go  to  school  together — if  it's  the  same." 

The  way  in  which  this  was  spoken  was  not  very  pro- 
mising, but  Waymark  would  not  be  discouraged,  having 
once  brought  himself  to  the  point  of  carrying  the  scheme 
through.  Harriet  went  on  to  ask  many  questions,  all  of 
which  he  answered  as  satisfactorily  as  he  could,  and  in  the 
end  she  expressed  herself  quite  willing  to  renew  Ida's 
acquaintance.  Waymark  had  watched  her  face  as  closely 
as  she  did  his,  and  he  was  able  to  read  pretty  accurately 
what  was  passing  in  her  mind.  Curiosity,  it  was  clear,  was 
her  main  incentive.  Good  will  there  was  none  ;  its  growth, 
if  at  all  possible,  would  depend  upon  Ida  herself.  There 
was  even  something  very  like  a  gleam  of  hate  in  her  dark 
eyes  when  Ida's  name  was  first  spoken. 

"  When  may  I  bring  her  ! "  Waymark  asked.  "  Perhaps 
you  Avould  hke  to  talk  it  over  with  Julian  first  "i  By-the- 
by,  perhaps  he  remembers  her  as  your  schoolfellow  ? " 

"  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  she  said,  with  a  pretence  of 
indifference.  "I  don't  see  what  he  can  have  to  say  against 
it.     Bring  her  as  soon  as  you  like." 

"She  is  not  free  till  seven  at  night.  Perhaps  we  had 
better  leave  it  till  next  Sunday  ? " 

"  Why  ?     WTiy  couldn't  she  come  to-morrow  night  ? " 

"  It  is  very  good  of  you.  I  have  no  doubt  she  would  be 
glad." 

With  this  understanding  Waymark  took  his  departure. 

"  Do  you  remember  Ida  Starr  ? "  was  Harriet's  first  ques- 
tion to  her  husband  when  he  returned  that  evening. 

"Certainlv  I  do,"  replied  Julian,  with  complete  self- 
control.     "Why?" 

"When  did  you  see  her  last?"  followed  quickly,  whilst 
she  examined  him  as  keenly  as  she  had  done  Waymark. 

"See  her ?"  repeated  Julian,  laughing.  "Do  you  mean 
the  girl  you  went  to  school  with  ? " 


UNDER-CURRENTS  179 

"  Of  coxirse  I  do." 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  ever  saw  her  in  my  life." 

•'  Well,  she's  coming  here  to-morrow  night." 

An  explanation  followed. 

"  Hasn't  he  ever  spoken  to  you  about  her  ? "  Harriet  asked. 

"No,"  said  Julian,  smiling.  "I  suppose  he  thought  it 
was  a  private  affair,  in  which  no  one  else  had  any  interest." 

"I  hope  you  will  like  her,"  he  said  presently.  "It  will 
be  very  nice  to  have  a  friend  of  that  kind,  won't  it  ?  " 

"Yes, — if  she  doesn't  throw  one  of  my  own  plates  at  me." 


CHAPTEE  XXII 

UNDER-CUERENTS 

"  Well,  how  do  you  like  her  1 "  Julian  asked,  when  their 
visitors  had  left  them. 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say  she's  all  right,"  was  the  reply.  "  She's 
got  a  good  deal  to  say  for  herself." 

Julian  turned  away,  and  walked  about  the  room. 

"  What  does  she  work  at  ? "  said  Harriet,  after  glancing 
at  him  furtively  once  or  twice. 

"  I  have  no  idea." 

"  It's  my  belief  she  doesn't  work  at  alL" 

"Why  should  Waymark  have  said  so,  then?"  asked 
Julian,  standing  still  and  looking  at  her.  He  spoke  very 
quietly,  but  his  face  betrayed  some  annoyance. 

Harriet  merely  laughed,  her  most  ill-natured  and  mali- 
ciously suggestive  laugh,  and  rose  from  her  seat.  Julian 
came  up  and  faced  her. 

"Harriet,"  he  said,  with  perfect  gentleness,  though  his 
lips  trembled,  "why  do  you  always  prefer  to  think  the  worst 
of  people  ?  I  always  look  for  the  good  rather  than  the  evil 
in  people  I  meet." 

"  We're  diiferent  in  a  good  many  things,  you  see,"  said 
Harriet,  with  a  sneer.  Her  countenance  had  darkened. 
Julian  had  learnt  the  significance  of  her  looks  and  tones 
only  too  well.  Under  the  circumstances  it  would  have  been 
better  to  keep  silence,  but  something  comi)elled  him  to  speak. 

"  I  am  sure  of  this,"  he  said.  "  If  yuu  will  only  meet 
her  in  her  own  spirit,  you  will  find  her  a  valuable  friend — 


i8o  THE  UNCLASSED 

just  such  a  friend  as  you  need.  But  of  course  if  you  begin 
with  all  manner  of  prejudices  and  suspicions,  it  will  be  very 
hard  for  her  to  make  you  believe  in  her  sincerity.  Certainly 
her  kindness,  her  sympathy,  her  whole  manner,  was  perfect 
to-night." 

"  You  seemed  to  notice  her  a  good  deal." 

"  Naturally  I  did,  being  so  anxious  that  you  should  find  a 
friend  and  companion." 

"  And  who  is  she,  I  should  like  to  know  1 "  said  Harriet, 
with  perfection  of  subdued  acrimony.  "  How  can  I  tell  that 
she's  a  proper  person  to  be  a  friend  to  me  ?  I  know  what 
her  mother  was,  at  all  events." 

"  Her  mother  1     What  do  you  know  of  her  mother  ? " 

Julian  had  never  known  the  whole  story  of  that  scar  on 
his  wife's  forehead. 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Harriet,  nodding  significantly. 

"I  have  no  idea  what  you  mean,"  Julian  returned.  "At 
all  events  I  can  trust  Waymark,  and  I  knoAV  very  well 
he  would  not  have  brought  her  here,  if  she  hadn't  been  a 
proper  person  for  you  to  know.  Eut  come,"  he  added 
quickly,  making  an  eff"ort  to  dismiss  the  disagreeable  tone 
between  them,  "  there's  surely  no  need  for  us  to  talk  like 
this,  Harriet.  I  am  sure  you  will  like  her,  when  you  know 
her  better.  Promise  me  that  you  will  try,  dear.  You  are 
so  lonely,  and  it  would  rejoice  me  so  to  feel  that  you  had  a 
friend  to  help  you  and  to  be  a  comfort  to  you.  At  all 
events  you  will  judge  her  on  her  own  merits,  won't  you,  and 
put  aside  all  kind  of  prejudice  ?  " 

"  I  haven't  said  I  shouldn't ;  but  I  suppose  I  must  get  to 
know  her  first  ? " 

Ominous  as  such  a  commencement  would  have  been  under 
any  other  circumstances,  Julian  was  so  prepared  for  more  de- 
cided hostility,  that  he  was  even  hopeful.  When  he  met  Way- 
mark  next,  the  change  in  his  manner  was  obvious ;  he  was 
almost  cheerful  once  more.  And  the  improvement  held  its 
ground  as  the  next  two  or  three  weeks  went  by.  Ida  came  to 
Beaufort  Street  often,  and  Julian  was  able  to  use  the  freedom 
he  thus  obtained  to  spend  more  time  in  Waymark's  society. 
The  latter  noticed  the  change  in  him  with  surjirise. 

"Things  go  well  still?"  he  would  ask,  when  Julian  came 
in  of  an  evening. 

"Very  well  indeed.  Harriet  hasn't  been  out  one  night 
this  week." 


UNDERCURRENTS  x8l 

"And  you  think  it  will  last? " 

"I  have  good  hope." 

They  did  not  speak  much  of  Ida,  however.  It  was  only 
when  three  weeks  had  gone  by  that  Julian  asked  one  night, 
with  some  hesitation  in  putting  the  question,  whether  Way- 
mark  saw  her  often. 

"  Pretty  often,"  was  the  reply.  "  I  am  her  tutor,  in  a 
sort  of  way.     We  read  together,  and  that  kind  of  thing." 

"  At  her  lodgings  ? " 

"  Yes.     Does  it  seem  a  queer  arrangement  1 " 

"She  seems  very  intelligent,"  said  Julian,  letting  the 
question  pass  by,  and  speaking  with  some  constraint.  "  Isn't 
it  a  pity  that  she  can't  find  some  employment  better  suited 
to  her?" 

"  I  don't  see  what  is  open.     Could  you  suggest  any  tiling  ? " 

Julian  was  silent. 

"  In  any  case,  it  won't  last  very  long,  I  suppose  ? "  he 
said,  looking  up  with  a  smile  which  was  rather  a  trembling 
of  the  lip. 

"Why?" 

They  gazed  at  each  other  for  a  moment. 

"  No,"  said  Waymark,  shaking  his  head  and  smiling.  "  It 
isn't  as  you  think.  It  is  perfectly  understood  between  U3 
that  we  are  to  be  agreeable  company  to  each  other,  and 
absolutely  nothing  beyond  that.  I  have  no  motive  for  lead- 
ing you  astray  in  the  matter.  However  things  were,  I  would 
tell  you  frankly." 

There  was  another  silence. 

*'  Do  you  think  there  is  anything  like  confidence  between 
your  wife  and  her  ? "  Waymark  asked. 

"  That  I  hardly  know.  When  I  am  present,  of  course 
they  only  talk  about  ordinary  women's  interests,  household 
afiairs,  and  so  on." 

"Then  you  have  no  means  of — well,  of  knowing  whether 
she  has  spoken  about  me  to  your  wife  in  any  particular  way  ? " 

"  Nothing  of  the  kind  has  ever  been  hinted  to  me." 

"Waymark,"  Julian  continued,  after  a  pause,  "you  are  a 
strange  fellow." 

"  In  what  respect." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  honestly  that — that  you " 

"  Well  ? — you  mean  to  say,  that  I  am  not  in  love  with  the 
girl?" 

"No,  I  wasn't  going  to  say  that,"  said  Julian,  with  his 


i82  THE  UNCLASSED 

usual  bashfulness,  heightened  in  this  case  by  some  feeling 
which  made  him  pale.  "  I  meant,  do  you  really  believe  that 
she  has  no  kind  of  regard  for  you  beyond  mere  friendship  ? " 

"  Why  1  Have  you  formed  any  conclusions  of  your  own  on 
the  point?" 

"  How  could  I  help  doing  so  ? " 

"And  you  look  on  me,"  said  Waymark,  after  thinking  for 
a  moment,  "  as  an  insensible  dog,  with  a  treasure  thrown  at 
his  feet  which  he  is  quite  incapable  of  appreciating  or  making 
use  of?" 

"No.  I  only  feel  that  your  position  must  be  a  very 
difficult  one.  But  perhaps  you  had  rather  not  speak  of 
these  things  1 " 

"On  the  contrary.  You  are  perfectly  right,  and  the 
position  is  as  difficult  as  it  well  could  be." 

"  You  had  made  your  choice,  I  suppose,  before  you  knew 
Ida  at  all?" 

"  So  far  from  that,  I  haven't  even  made  it  yet.  I  am  not 
at  all  sure  that  my  chance  of  ever  marrying  Maud  Enderby 
is  not  so  utterly  remote,  that  I  ought  to  put  aside  all  thought 
of  it.     In  that  case " 

"  But  this  is  a  strange  state  of  mind,"  said  Julian,  with  a 
forced  laugh.    "  Is  it  possible  to  balance  feelings  in  this  way  ? " 

"  You,  in  my  position,  would  have  no  doubt  1 " 

"  I  don't  know  Miss  Enderby,"  said  Julian,  reddening. 

Waymark  walked  up  and  down  the  room,  with  his  hands 
behind  his  back,  his  brows  bent.  He  had  never  told  his 
friend  anything  of  Ida's  earlier  history ;  but  now  he  felt 
half-tempted  to  let  him  know  everything.  To  do  so,  might 
possibly  give  him  that  additional  motive  to  a  clear  and 
speedy  decision  in  the  difficulties  which  grew  ever  more 
pressing.  Yet  was  it  just  to  Ida  to  speak  of  these  things 
even  to  one  who  would  certainly  not  repeat  a  word  1  Once 
or  twice  he  all  but  began,  yet  in  the  end  a  variety  of  motives 
kept  him  silent. 

"  Well,"  he  exclaimed  shortly,  "  we'll  talk  about  this  an- 
other time.  Perhaps  I  shall  have  more  to  tell  you.  Don't 
be  gloomy.  Look,  here  I  am  just  upon  the  end  of  my  novel. 
If  all  goes  smoothly  I  shall  finish  it  in  a  fortnight,  and  then 
I  wOl  read  it  to  you." 

"  I  hope  you  may  have  better  luck  with  it  than  1  had," 
said  Julian. 

"  Oh,  your  time  is  yet  to  come.     And  it's  very  likely  I 


UNDER-CURRENTS  183 

shall  be  no  better  off.  There  are  things  in  the  book  which 
■will  scarcely  recommend  it  to  the  British  parent.  But  it 
shall  be  published,  if  it  is  at  my  own  expense.  If  it  comes 
to  the  worst,  1  shall  sell  my  mining  shares  to  "Woodstock." 

"  After  aU,"  said  Julian,  smiling,  "you  are  a  capitalist." 

"Yes,  and  much  good  it  does  me." 

Since  that  first  evening  Julian  had  refrained  from  speak- 
ing to  his  wife  about  Ida,  beyond  casual  remarks  and  ques- 
tions which  could  carry  no  significance.  Harriet  likewise 
had  been  silent.  As  far  as  could  be  observed,  however,  she 
seemed  to  take  a  pleasure  in  Ida's  society,  and,  as  Julian 
said,  with  apparently  good  result  to  herself.  She  was  more 
at  home  than  formerly,  and  her  liealth  even  seemed  to  profit 
by  the  change.  Still,  there  was  something  not  altogether 
natural  in  all  this,  and  Julian  could  scarcely  bring  himself 
to  believe  in  thi;  happy  turn  things  seemed  to  be  taking.  In 
Harriet  herself  there  was  no  corresponding  growth  of  cheer- 
fulness or  good-nature.  She  was  quiet,  but  with  a  quietness 
not  altogether  pleasant;  it  was  as  though  her  thoughts  were 
constantly  occupied,  as  never  hitherto ;  and  her  own  moral 
condition  was  hardly  likely  to  be  the  subject  of  these  medi- 
tations. Julian,  when  he  sat  reading,  sometimes  became 
desperately  aware  of  her  eyes  being  fixed  on  him  for  many 
minutes  at  a  time.  Once,  on  this  happening,  he  looked  up 
with  a  smile. 

"Wliat  is  it,  dear?"  he  asked,  turning  round  to  her. 
"  You  are  very  quiet.     Shall  I  put  away  the  book  and  talk  I " 

"No;  I'm  all  right." 

"  You've  been  much  better  lately,  haven't  you  ] "  he  said, 
taking  her  hand  playfully.  "Let  me  feel  your  pulse  ;  yuu 
know  I'm  half  a  doctor." 

She  drew  it  away  peevishly.  But  Julian,  whom  a  peace- 
ful hour  had  made  full  of  kindness,  went  on  in  the  same 
gentle  way. 

"  You  don't  know  how  happy  it  makes  me  to  see  you  and 
Ida  such  good  friends.  I  was  sure  it  would  be  so.  Don't 
you  feel  there  is  something  soothing  in  her  society?  She 
speaks  so  gently,  and  always  brings  a  sort  of  sunshine  with 
her." 

Harriet's  lips  curled,  very  slightly,  but  she  said  nothing. 

'•  When  are  you  going  to  see  her  again  ?  It's  hardly  fair 
to  let  the  visiting  be  always  on  her  side,  is  HI  " 

•'  1  .shall  go  when  I  feel  able.     Perhaps  to-morrow." 


i84  THE  UNCLASSED 

Julian  presently  went  back  to  his  book  again.  If  he 
could  have  seen  the  look  Harriet  turned  upon  him  when  his 
face  was  averted,  he  would  not  have  read  so  calmly. 

That  same  evening  Harriet  herself  was  the  subject  of  a 
short  conversation  between  Ida  and  Wayraark,  as  they  sat 
together  in  the  usual  way. 

"  I  fear  there  will  never  be  anything  like  confidence  be- 
tween us,"  Ida  was  saying.  "  Do  you  know  that  I  am  some- 
times almost  afraid  of  her ;  sometimes  she  looks  and  speaks 
as  if  she  hated  me." 

"  She  is  a  poor,  ill-conditioned  creature,"  Waymark  re 
plied,  rather  contemptuously. 

"Can  you  explain,"  asked  Ida,  "how  it  was  that  Mr. 
Casti  married  her  ? " 

"  For  my  life,  I  can't !  I  half  believe  it  was  out  of  mere 
pity ;  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  the  proposal  came  from  her  side. 
Casti  might  once  have  done  something;  but  I'm  afraid  he 
never  will  now." 

"  And  he  is  so  very  good  to  her.  I  pity  him  from  my 
heart  whenever  I  see  them  together.  Often  I  have  been 
so  discouraged  by  her  cold  suspicious  ways,  that  I  half- 
thought  I  should  have  to  give  it  up,  but  I  felt  it  would  be 
cruel  to  desert  him  so.  I  met  him  in  the  street  the  other 
night  just  as  I  was  going  to  her,  and  he  thanked  me  for 
what  I  was  doing  in  a  way  that  almost  made  me  cry." 

"  By-the-by,"  said  Waymark,  "you  know  her  too  well  to 
venture  upon  anything  like  direct  criticism  of  her  behaviour, 
when  you  talk  together  ?  " 

"Indeed,  I  scarcely  venture  to  speak  of  herself  at  all.  It 
would  be  hard  to  say  what  we  talk  about." 

"  Of  course,"  Waymark  said,  after  a  short  silence,  "  there 
are  limits  to  self-devotion.  So  long  as  it  seems  to  you  that 
there  is  any  chance  of  doing  some  good,  well,  persevere. 
But  you  mustn't  be  sacrificed  to  such  a  situation.  The  time 
you  give  her  is  so  much  absolute  loss  to  yourself." 

"  Oh,  but  I  work  hard  to  make  up  for  it.  You  are  not 
dissatisfied  with  me  1 " 

"  And  what  if  I  were  1     Would  it  matter  much  1 " 

This  was  one  of  the  things  that  Waymark  was  ever  and 
again  saying,  in  spite  of  himself.  He  could  not  resist  the 
temptation  of  proving  his  power  in  this  way  ;  it  is  so  sweet 
to  be  assured  of  love,  even  though  every  voice  within  cries 
out  against  the  temptation  to  enjoy  it,  and  condemns  every 


UNDER-CURRENTS  185 

word  or  act  that  could  encourage  it  to  hope.  Ida  generally 
met  such  remarks  with  silence ;  but  in  this  instance  she 
looked  up  steadily,  and  said — 

"  Yes,  it  would  matter  much." 

"Waymark  drew  in  his  breath,  half  turned  away — and 
spoke  of  some  quite  different  matter. 

Harriet  carried  out  her  intention  of  visiting  Ida  on  the 
following  day.  In  these  three  weeks  she  had  only  been  to 
Ida's  lodgings  once.  The  present  visit  was  unexpected. 
She  waited  about  the  pavement  for  Ida's  return  from  work, 
and  shortly  saw  her  approaching. 

"  This  is  kind  of  you,"  Ida  said.  "  We'll  have  some  tea, 
and  then,  if  you're  not  too  tired,  we  might  go  into  the  park. 
It  will  be  cool  then." 

She  dreaded  the  thought  of  sitting  alone  with  Harriet. 
But  the  latter  said  she  must  get  home  early,  and  would  only 
have  time  to  sit  for  half  an  hour.  When  Ida  had  lit  her 
fire,  and  put  the  kettle  on,  she  found  that  the  milk  which 
she  had  kept  since  the  morning  for  Grim  and  herself  had 
gone  sour ;  so  she  had  to  run  out  to  a  dairy  to  fetch  some. 

"You  won't  mind  being  left  alone  for  a  minute V  she 
said. 

"  Oh,  no ;  I'll  amuse  myself  with  Grim." 

As  soon  as  she  was  alone,  Harriet  went  into  the  bed-room, 
and  began  to  examine  everything.  Grim  had  followed  her, 
and  came  up  to  rub  affectionately  against  her  feet,  but  she 
kicked  him,  muttering,  "  Get  off,  you  black  beast !  "  Having 
scrutinised  the  articles  which  lay  about,  she  quickly  searched 
the  pockets  of  a  dress  which  hung  on  the  door,  but  found 
nothing  except  a  handkerchief.  All  the  time  she  listened 
for  any  footfall  on  the  stone  steps  without.  Next  she  went 
to  the  chest  of  drawers,  and  was  pleased  to  find  that  they 
were  unlocked.  In  the  first  she  drew  out  there  were  some 
books  and  papers.  These  she  rummaged  through  very 
quickly,  and  at  length,  underneath  them,  came  upon  a  little 
bundle  of  pawn-tickets.  On  finding  these,  she  laughed  to 
herself,  and  carefully  inspected  every  one  of  them.  "  Gold 
chain,"  she  muttered  ;  "  bracelet ;  seal-skin  ; — what  was  she 
doing  with  all  those  things,  I  wonder  ?    Ho,  ho.  Miss  Starr  ? " 

She  started ;  there  was  a  step  on  the  stairs.  In  a  second 
everything  was  replaced,  and  she  was  back  iu  the  sitting-room, 
stooping  over  Grim,  who  took  her  endearments  with  passive 
indignation. 


T«86  THE  UNCLASSED 

"Have  I  been  long ?  "  panted  Ida,  as  she  came  in.  " The 
kettle  won't  be  a  minute.     You'll  take  your  things  off?" 

Harriet  removed  her  hat  only.  As  Ida  went  about,  pre- 
paring the  tea,  Harriet  watched  her  with  eyes  in  which  there 
was  a  new  light.  She  spoke,  too,  in  almost  a  cheerful  way, 
and  even  showed  a  better  appetite  than  usual  when  they  sat 
down  together. 

'*  You  are  better  to-day  ?  "  Ida  said  to  her. 

"  Perhaps  so ;  but  it  doesn't  last  long." 

"  Oh,  you  must  be  more  hopeful.  Try  not  to  look  so 
much  on  the  dark  side  of  things.  How  would  you  be,"  she 
added,  with  a  good-humoured  laugh,  "if  you  had  to  work  all 
day,  like  mel  I'm  sure  you've  a  great  deal  to  make  you  feel 
happy  and  thankful." 

"  I  don't  know  what,"  returned  Harriet  coldly. 

"  But  your  husband,  your  home,  your  long,  free  days?" 

The  other  laughed  peevishly.  Ida  turned  her  head  away 
for  a  moment ;  she  was  irritated  by  this  wretched  humour, 
and,  as  had  often  been  the  case  of  late,  found  it  diilicult  to 
restrain  some  rather  trenchant  remark. 

"  It  may  sound  strange,"  she  said,  with  a  smile,  "  but  I 
think  I  should  be  very  willing  to  endure  bad  health  for  a 
position  something  like  yours." 

Harriet  laughed  atrtun,  and  still  more  unpleasantly. 

Later  in  the  evcnin ,'  Harriet  went  to  call  upon  her  friend 
Mrs.  S prowl.  Something  of  an  amusing  kind  seemed  to  be 
going  forward  in  front  of  the  house.  On  drawing  near  and 
pressing  into  the  crowd  of  loitering  people,  she  beheld  a 
spectacle  familiar  to  her,  and  one  which  brought  a  smile  to 
her  face.  A  man  of  wretched  appearance,  in  vile  semblance 
of  clothing  which  barely  clung  together  about  him,  was  stand- 
ing on  his  head  upon  the  pavement,  and,  in  that  attitude, 
drawling  out  what  was  meant  for  a  song,  while  those  around 
made  merry  and  indulged  in  practical  jokes  at  his  expense. 
One  such  put  a  sudden  end  to  the  exhibition.  A  young 
ragamuffin  drew  near  with  a  handful  of  rich  mud,  and  care- 
fully cast  it  right  into  the  singer's  inverted  mouth.  The 
man  was  on  his  feet  in  an  instant,  and  pursuing  the  assailant, 
who,  however,  succeeded  in  escaping  down  an  alley  hard  by. 
Returning,  the  man  went  from  one  to  another  in  the  crowd, 
holding  out  his  hand.     Harriet  passed  on  into  the  bar. 

"  Slimy's  up  to  his  larks  to-night,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Sprowl, 
with  a  laugh,  as  she  welcomed  her  visitor  in  the  bar-parlour. 


UNDER-CURRENTS  187 

"  He'll  be  losin'  his  sweet  temper  just  now,  see  if  he  don't, 
an'  then  one  o'  them  chaps  '11  get  a  bash  i'  the  eye." 

"  I  always  like  to  see  him  singing  on  his  head,"  said 
Harriet,  who  seemed  at  once  thoroughly  at  her  ease  in  the 
atmosphere  of  beer  and  pipes. 

"It's  funny,  ain't  iti  And  'ow's  the  world  been  a-usin' 
you,  Harriet  ?  Seen  anything  more  o'  that  affectionate  friend 
c'  yourn  1 " 

This  was  said  with  a  grin,  and  a  significant  wink. 

"  Have  you  found  out  anything  about  her  ? "  asked  Harriet 
eagerly. 

"  Why  yes,  I  have ;  somethin'  as  '11  amuse  you.  It's  just 
as  I  thought." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ? " 

"  Why,  Bella,  was  in  'ere  th'  other  night,  so  I  says  to  her, 
'  Bella,'  I  says,  '  didn't  you  never  hear  of  a  girl  called  Ida 
Starr  ? '  I  says.  '  Course  I  did,'  she  says.  *  One  o'  the  'igh 
an'  'auglity  lot,  an'  she  lived  by  herself  somewhere  in  the 
Strand.'     So  it's  just  as  I  told  you." 

"  But  what  is  she  doing  now  1 " 

"  You  say  she's  turned  modest." 

"  I  can't  make  her  out  quite,"  said  Harriet,  reflecting, 
with  her  head  on  one  side.  "  I've  been  at  her  lodgings  to- 
night, and,  whilst  she  was  out  of  the  room,  I  happened  to 
get  sight  of  a  lot  of  pawn-tickets,  for  gold  chains  and  seal- 
skins, and  I  don't  know  what." 

"  Spouted  'em  all  when  she  threw  up  the  job,  I  s'pose," 
suggested  Mrs.  Sprowl.  "  You're  sure  she  does  go  to 
work  1 " 

"  Yes,  I've  had  somebody  to  follow  her  and  watch  her. 
There's  Waymark  goes  to  se©  her  often,  and  I  shouldn't 
wonder  if  she  half  keeps  him ;  he's  just  that  kind  of  fellow." 

"  You  haven't  caught  no  one  else  going  there  1 '"  asked 
Mrs.  Sprowl,  with  another  of  her  intense  winks. 

"No,  I  haven't,  not  yet,"  replied  Harriet,  with  sudden 
vehemence,  "  but  I  believe  he  does  go  there,  or  else  sees  her 
somewhere  else." 

*'  Well,"  said  the  landlady,  with  an  air  of  generous  wisdom, 
"  I  told  you  from  the  first  as  I  'adn't  much  opinion  of  men  as 
is  so  anxious  to  have  their  wives  friendly  with  other  women. 
There's  always  something  at  tlie  bottom  of  it,  you  may  bet. 
It's  my  belief  he's  one  too  many  for  you,  Harriet ;  you're 
too  simple-minded  to  catch  him." 


i88  THE  UNCLASSED 

"  I'll  have  a  good  try,  though,"  cried  the  girl,  deadly  pale 
with  passion.  "  Perhaps  I'm  not  so  simple  as  you  think.  I'm 
pretty  quick  in  tumbling  to  things — no  fear.  If  they  think 
I  don't  notice  what  goes  on,  they  must  take  me  for  a  damned 
sUly  fool,  that's  aU  !  Why,  I've  seen  them  wink  at  each 
other,  when  they  thought  I  wasn't  looking." 

"  You're  not  such  a  fool  as  to  leave  them  alone  together  ? " 
said  the  woman,  who  seemed  to  have  a  pleasure  in  working 
upon  Harriet's  jealousy. 

"  No  fear  !  But  they  understand  each  otlier  ;  I  can  see 
that  well  enough.  And  he  writes  to  her;  I'm  dead  sure  he 
writes  to  her.  Let  me  get  hold  of  a  letter  just  once,  that's 
all ! " 

"  And  he's  orful  good-natured  to  her,  ain't  he  ?  Looks 
after  her  when  she  has  tea  with  you,  and  so  on  1 " 

"  I  should  think  he  did.  It's  aU— '  Won't  Miss  Starr 
have  this  ? '  and  '  Won't  Miss  Starr  have  that  1 '  He  scarcely 
takes  his  eyes  off  of  her,  all  the  time." 

"  I  know,  I  know ;  it's  alius  the  same  !  You  keep  your 
eyes  open,  Harriet,  and  you'll  'ave  your  reward,  as  the 
Scriptures  says." 

When  she  reached  home,  Julian  was  in  the  uneasy  con- 
dition always  brought  about  by  these  late  absences.  To  a 
remark  he  made  about  the  time,  she  vouchsafed  no  answer. 

"Have  you  been  with  Ida  all  the  evening?"  he  asked, 

"  No,  I  haven't,"  was  her  reply. 

She  went  into  the  bed-rcom,  and  was  absent  for  a  few 
minutes,  then  reappeared. 

"Do  you  know  where  my  silver  spoon  is?"  she  asked, 
looking  closely  at  him. 

"Your  sUver  spoon? "he  returned,  in  surprise.  "Have 
you  lost  it?" 

The  article  in  question,  together  with  a  fork,  had  been  a 
wedding- present  from  Mrs.  Sprowl,  whose  character  had  in 
it  a  sort  of  vulgar  generosity,  displayed  at  times  in  gifts  to 
Harriet. 

"  I  can't  find  it,"  Harriet  said.  "  I  was  showing  it  to  Ida 
Starr  when  she  was  here  on  Sunday,  and  now  I  come  to 
look  for  it,  it's  gone." 

"  Oh,  it  can't  be  very  far  off,"  said  Julian.  "  You'll  find 
it  if  you  look." 

"  Ikit  I  tell  you  I've  looked  everywhere.  It's  gone,  that's 
all  I  know." 


THE  OPPORTUNITY  189 

"  "Well,  but — what  do  you  mean  ?    How  can  it  have  gone  1 " 

"  I  don't  know.  I  only  know  I  was  showing  it  her  on 
Sunday." 

"And  what  connection  is  there  between  the  two  things?" 
asked  Julian,  almost  sternly.  "  You  don't  wish  me  to  under- 
stand that  Ida  Starr  knows  anything  about  the  sjioon  1 " 

" How  can  I  tell ?     It's  gone," 

"Come,"  exclaimed  Julian,  with  a  laugh,  "this  is  too 
absurd,  Harriet !  You  must  have  taken  leave  of  your  senses. 
If  it's  gone,  then  some  one  in  the  house  has  taken  it." 

"And  why  not  Ida  Starr?" 

Julian  stared  at  her  with  mingled  anger  and  alarm. 

"A\'hy  not?  Simply  because  she  is  incapable  of  such  a 
thing." 

"Perhaps  you  think  so,  no  doubt.  You  think  a  good 
deal  of  her,  it  seems  to  me.  Perhaps  you  don't  know  quite 
as  much  about  her  as  I  do." 

"  I  fancy  I  know  much  more,"  exclaimed  Julian  indig- 
nantly. 

"Oh,  do  you?" 

"If  you  think  her  capable  of  stealing  your  spoon,  you 
show  complete  ignorance  of  her  character.  What  do  you 
know  of  her  that  you  should  have  such  suspicions  ? " 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Harriet,  nodding  her  head  obstinately. 

There  was  again  a  long  silence.     Julian  reflected. 

"  We  Avill  talk  about  this  again  to-morrow,"  he  said, 
"  wlien  you  have  had  time  to  think.  You  are  under  some 
strange  delusion.  After  all,  I  expect  you  will  find  the 
spoon,  and  then  you'll  be  sorry  for  having  been  so  hasty." 

Harriet  became  obstinately  silent.  She  cut  a  piece  of 
bread  and  butter,  and  took  it  into  the  other  room.  Jidian 
paced  up  and  down. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE    OPPORTUNITY 

One  or  two  days  after  this,  Ida  Starr  came  home  from  work 
with  a  heavy  heart.  Quite  without  notice,  and  without 
explanation,  her  employer  had  paid  her  a  week's  wages  and 
dismissed  her.  Her  first  astonished  questions  having  been 
met  with  silence  by  the   honest  but  hard-grained  woman 


190  THE  UNCLASSED 

who  kept  the  laundry,  Ida  had  not  condescended  to  any 
further  appeal.  The  fact  was  that  the  laundress  had  received 
a  visit  from  a  certain  Mrs.  Sprowl,  who,  under  pretence 
of  making  inquiries  for  the  protection  of  a  young  female 
friend,  revealed  the  damaging  points  of  Ida's  story,  and 
gained  the  end  plotted  with  Harriet  Casti. 

Several  circumstances  united  to  make  this  event  disastrous 
to  Ida.  Her  wages  were  very  little  more  than  she  needed 
for  her  week  to  week  existence,  yet  she  had  managed  to 
save  a  shilling  or  two  now  and  then.  The  greater  part  of 
these  small  savings  .she  had  just  laid  out  in  some  new  cloth- 
ing, the  reason  for  the  expense  heing  not  so  much  necessity, 
as  a  desire  to  be  rather  better  dressed  when  she  accompanied 
Waymark  on  those  little  country  excursions  which  had  re- 
established themselves  of  late.  By  no  means  the  smallest 
I)art  of  Ida's  heroism  was  that  involved  in  this  matter  of 
external  appearance.  A  beautiful  woman  can  never  be 
indifferent  to  the  way  in  which  her  beauty  is  arrayed.  That 
Waymark  was  not  indifferent  to  such  things  she  knew  well, 
and  often  she  suffered  from  the  thought  that  one  strong 
means  of  attraction  was  lost  to  her.  If  at  one  moment  Ida 
was  conscious  of  her  claim  to  inspire  a  noble  enthusiasm,  at 
another  she  fell  into  the  saddest  self-distrust,  and,  in  her 
hunger  for  love,  would  gladly  have  sought  every  humblest 
aid  of  grace  and  adornment.  So  she  had  yielded  to  the 
needs  of  her  heart,  and  only  this  morning  was  gladdened 
by  the  charm  of  some  new  clothing  which  became  her  well, 
and  which  Waymark  would  see  in  a  day  or  two.  It  lay 
there  before  her  now  that  she  returned  home,  and,  in  the 
lu'st  onset  of  trouble,  she  sat  down  and  cried  over  it. 

She  suffered  the  more,  too,  that  there  had  been  something 
of  a  falling  off  of  late  in  the  good  health  she  generally 
enjoyed.  The  day's  work  seemed  long  and  hard ;  she  felt 
an  unwonted  need  of  rest.  And  these  things  caused  trouble 
of  the  mind.  With  scarcely  an  hour  of  depression  she  had 
worked  on  through  those  months  of  solitude,  supported  by 
the  sense  that  every  day  brought  an  accession  of  the  strength 
of  purity,  that  the  dark  time  was  left  one  more  stage  behind, 
and  that  trust  in  herself  was  growing  assured. 

But  it  was  harder  than  she  had  foreseen,  to  maintain 
reserve  and  reticence  when  her  heart  was  throbbing  with 
passion;  the  effect  upon  her  of  Waymark's  comparative 
coldness  was  so  much  harder  to  bear  than  she  had  imagined. 


THE  OPPORTUNITY  191 

Her  mind  tortured  itself  incessantly  with  the  fear  that  some 
new  love  had  taken  possession  of  him.  And  now  there  had 
befallen  her  this  new  misfortune,  which,  it  might  be,  would 
once  more  bring  about  a  crisis  in  her  life. 

Of  course  she  must  forthwith  set  about  finding  new  work. 
It  would  be  difficult,  seeing  that  she  had  now  no  reference 
to  give.  Reflection  had  convinced  her  that  it  must  have 
been  some  discovery  of  her  former  life  which  had  led  to  her 
sudden  dismissal,  and  this  increased  her  despondency.  Yet 
she  would  not  give  way  to  it.  On  the  following  morning 
she  began  her  search  for  employment,  and  day  after  day  faced 
without  result  the  hateful  ordeal.  Hope  failed  as  she  saw  her 
painfully-eked-out  coins  become  fewer  and  fewer.  In  a  day 
or  two  she  would  have  nothing,  and  what  would  happen  then? 

When  she  returned  to  London  to  begin  a  new  life,  now 
nearly  a  year  ago,  she  had  sold  some  and  pawned  the  rest  of 
such  possessions  as  would  in  future  be  useful  to  her.  Part 
of  the  money  thus  obtained  had  bought  the  furniture  of  her 
rooms  ;  what  remained  had  gone  for  a  few  months  to  supple- 
ment her  weekly  wages,  thus  making  the  winter  less  a  time 
of  hardship  than  it  must  otherwise  have  been.  One  or  two 
articles  yet  remained  capable  of  being  turned  into  small 
sums,  and  these  she  now  disposed  of  at  a  neighbouring 
pawnbroker's— the  same  she  had  previously  visited  on  the 
occasion  of  pawning  one  or  two  of  the  things,  the  tickets  for 
which  Harriet  Casti  had  so  carefully  inspected.  She  spoke 
to  no  one  of  her  position.  Yet  now  the  lime  was  quickly 
coming  when  she  must  either  have  help  from  some  quarter 
or  else  give  up  her  lodgings.  In  food  she  was  already  stint- 
ing herself  to  the  verge  of  starvation.  And  through  all 
this  she  had  to  meet  her  friends  as  hitherto,  if  possible 
without  allowing  any  trace  of  her  suffering  to  become  visible. 
Harriet,  strange  to  say,  had  been  of  late  a  rather  frequent 
visitor,  and  was  more  pressing  than  formerly  in  her  invita- 
tions. Ida  dreaded  her  coming,  as  it  involved  the  unwar- 
rantable expense  of  obtaining  luxuries  now  unknown  in  her 
cupboard,  such  as  tea  and  butter.  And,  on  the  other  hand, 
it  was  almost  impossible  to  alfect  cheerfulness  in  the  company 
of  the  Castis.  At  times  she  caught  Julian's  eyes  fixed  upon 
her,  and  felt  that  he  noticed  some  change  in  her  appearance. 
She  had  a  sense  of  guilt  in  their  presence,  as  if  she  were 
there  on  false  pretences.  For,  together  with  lier  daily  work, 
much  of  her  confidence  had  gone;   an  inexplicable  shame 


192  THE  UNCLASSED 

constantly  troubled  her.  She  longed  to  hide  herself  away, 
and  be  alone  with  her  wretchedness. 

If  it  came  to  asking  for  help,  of  whom  could  she  ask  it 
but  of  Waymark  ?  Yet  for  some  time  she  felt  she  could  not 
bring  herself  to  that.  In  the  consciousness  of  her  own 
attitude  towards  him,  it  seemed  to  her  that  Waymark  might 
well  doubt  the  genuineness  of  her  need,  might  think  it  a 
mere  feint  to  draw  him  into  nearer  relations.  She  could 
not  doubt  that  he  knew  her  love  for  him ;  she  did  not  desire 
to  hide  it,  even  had  she  been  able.  But  him  she  could  not 
understand.  A  struggle  often  seemed  going  on  within  him 
in  her  presence ;  he  appeared  to  repress  his  impulses ;  he 
"was  afraid  of  her.  At  times  passion  urged  her  to  break 
through  this  barrier  between  them,  to  bring  about  a  situation 
which  would  end  in  clear  mutual  understanding,  cost  her 
what  it  might.  At  other  times  she  was  driven  to  despair  by 
the  thought  that  she  had  made  herself  too  cheap  in  his  eyes. 
Could  she  put  off  the  last  vestige  of  her  independence,  and, 
in  so  many  words,  ask  him  to  give  her  money  ? 

This  evening  she  expected  Waymark,  but  the  usual  time 
of  his  coming  went  by.  She  sat  in  the  twilight,  listening 
with  painful  intentness  to  every  step  on  the  stairs ;  again 
and  again  her  heart  leaped  at  some  footfall  far  below,  only 
to  be  deceived.  She  had  not  even  now  made  up  her  mind 
how  to  speak  to  him,  or  whether  to  speak  to  him  at  all ;  but 
she  longed  passionately  to  see  him.  The  alternations  of  hope 
and  disappointment  made  her  feverish.  Illusions  began  to 
possess  her.  Once  she  heard  distinctly  the  familiar  knock. 
It  seemed  to  rouse  her  from  slumber :  she  sprang  to  the 
door  and  opened  it,  but  no  one  was  there.  She  ran  half 
way  down  the  stairs,  but  saw  no  one.  It  was  now  nearly  mid- 
night. The  movement  had  dispelled  for  a  little  the  lethargy 
which  was  growing  upon  her,  and  she  suddenly  came  to  a 
resolution.     Taking  a  sheet  of  note-paper,  she  wrote  this : — 

"I  have  been  without  work  for  a  fortnight.  All  my 
money  is  done,  and  I  am  in  want.  Can  you  send  me  some, 
for  present  help,  till  I  get  more  work?  Do  not  bring  it 
yourself,  and  do  not  sj)eak  a  ivord  of  this  when  you  see  me,  I 
beg  you  earnestly.  If  I  shall  fail  to  get  work,  I  will  speak 
to  you  of  my  own  accord.  I.  S." 

She  went  out  and  posted  this,  though  she  had  no  stamp 


THE  OPPORTUNITY  193 

to  put  on  the  envelope ;  then,  returning,  she  threw  herself 
as  she  was  on  to  the  bed,  and  before  long  passed  into  un- 
consciousness. 

Waymark's  absence  that  evening  had  been  voluntary. 
His  work  had  come  to  a  standstill ;  his  waking  hours  were 
passed  in  a  restless  misery  which  threatened  to  make  him 
ill.  And  to-night  he  had  not  dared  to  go  to  Ida;  in  his 
present  state  the  visit  could  have  but  one  result,  and  even 
yet  he  hoped  that  such  a  result  might  not  come  about.  He 
left  home  and  wandered  about  the  streets  till  early  morning. 
All  manner  of  projects  occupied  him.  He  all  but  made  up 
his  mind  to  write  a  long  letter  to  Ida  and  explain  his  posi- 
tion without  reserve.  But  he  feared  lest  the  result  of  that 
might  be  to  make  Ida  hide  away  from  him  once  more,  and 
to  this  loss  he  could  not  reconcile  himself.  Yet  he  was 
further  than  ever  from  the  thought  of  giving  himself  wholly 
to  her,  for  the  intenser  his  feeling  grew,  the  more  clearly  he 
recognised  its  character.  This  was  not  love  he  suffered 
from,  but  mere  desire.  To  let  it  have  its  way  would  be  to 
degrade  Ida.  Love  might  or  might  not  follow,  and  how 
could  he  place  her  at  the  mercy  of  such  a  chance  as  that  1 
Her  faith  and  trust  in  him  were  absolute;  could  he  take 
advantage  of  it  for  his  own  ends  t  And,  for  all  these  fine 
arguments,  Waymark  saw  with  perfect  clearness  how  the 
matter  would  end.  Self  would  triumph,  and  Ida,  if  the 
fates  so  willed  it,  would  be  sacrificed.  It  was  detestable, 
but  a  fact;  as  good  already  as  an  accomplished  fact. 

And  on  the  following  morning  Ida's  note  reached  him. 
It  was  final.  Her  entreaty  that  he  would  merely  send 
money  had  no  weight  with  him  for  a  moment ;  he  felt  that 
there  was  a  contradiction  between  her  words  and  her  wishes. 
This  note  explained  the  strangeness  he  had  noticed  in  her 
on  their  last  evening  together.  He  pitied  her,  and,  as  is  so 
often  the  case,  pity  was  but  fuel  to  passion.  He  swept  from 
his  mind  all  obstinate  debatings.  Passion  should  be  a  law 
unto  itself.     Let  the  future  bring  things  about  as  it  would. 

He  had  risen  late,  and  by  the  time  he  had  finished  a 
hasty  breakfast  it  was  eleven  o'clock.  Half  an  hour  after 
he  went  up  the  stairs  of  the  lodging-house  and  knocked  at 
the  familiar  door. 

But  his  knock  met  with  no  answer.  Ida  herself  had  left 
home  an  hour  before.     Upon  waking,  and  recalling  what  she 

N 


194  THE  UNCLASSED 

had  done,  she  foresaw  that  Waymark  would  himself  come, 
in  spite  of  her  request.  She  could  not  face  him.  For  all 
that  her  exhaustion  was  so  great  that  walking  was  slow  and 
weary,  she  went  out  and  strayed  at  first  with  no  aim ;  hut 
presently  she  took  the  direction  of  Chelsea,  and  so  came  to 
Beaufort  Street.  She  would  go  in  and  see  Harriet,  who 
would  give  her  something  to  eat.  She  cared  little  now  for 
letting  it  he  known  that  she  had  left  her  employment ;  with 
the  step  which  she  had  at  last  taken,  her  position  was  quite 
changed ;  she  had  only  kept  silence  lest  "Waymark  should 
come  to  know.  Harriet  was  at  first  surprised  to  see  her, 
then  seemed  glad. 

"  I've  only  a  minute  ago  sent  a  note,  asking  you  to  he 
sure  to  come  round  to-night.  I  wanted  you  to  help  me 
with  this  new  hat ;  you  have  such  good  taste  in  trimming." 

Ida  would  have  heen  astonished  at  another  time;  for 
Harriet  to  he  paying  compliments  was  indeed  something 
novel.  There  was  a  flush  on  the  latter's  usually  sallow  face ; 
she  did  not  sit  down,  and  kept  moving  aimlessly  ahout. 

"Give  me  your  hat  and  jacket,"  she  said,  "and  let  me 
take  them  into  the  other  room." 

Slie  took  them  away,  and  returned.  Ida  was  not  looking 
at  her ;  otherwise  she  must  surely  have  noticed  that  weird 
pallor  which  had  all  at  once  succeeded  to  the  unhealthy 
fluyh,  and  the  unwonted  gleaming  of  her  eyes.  Of  what 
passed  during  those  next  two  hours  Ida  had  afterwards  no 
recollection.  They  ate  together,  and  they  talked,  Ida  as  if 
in  a  dream,  Harriet  preoccupied  in  a  way  quite  out  of  her 
habit.  Ida  explained  that  she  was  out  of  employment,  news 
which  could  scarcely  be  news  to  the  listener,  who  would  in 
that  case  have  heard  it  with  far  less  composure.  There 
were  long  silences,  generally  brought  to  an  end  by  some  out- 
burst of  forced  merriment  from  Harriet.  Ida  was  without 
consciousness  of  time,  but  her  restless  imagination  at  length 
compelled  her  to  go  forth  again.  Harriet  did  not  urge  her 
to  stay,  but  rose  and  watched  her  as  she  went  into  the  other 
room  to  put  her  things  on.     In  a  few  moments  they  had  parted. 

The  instant  Harriet,  from  the  head  of  the  stairs,  heard 
the  front-door  close,  she  ran  back  into  her  bed-room,  put  on 
her  hat,  and  darted  down.  Opening  the  door,  she  saw  Ida 
moving  away  at  a  short  distance.  Turning  her  eyes  in  the 
opposite  direction,  she  perceived  a  policeman  coming  slowly 
down  the  street.     She  ran  towards  him. 


THE  OPPORTUNITY 


195 


"  I've  caught  her  at  last,"  she  exclaimed,  as  she  met  him, 
pointing  eagerly  after  Ida.  "  She's  taken  a  brooch  of  mine, 
I  put  it  in  a  particular  place  in  my  bed-room,  and  it's  gone." 

"Was  she  alone  in  the  room?"  inquired  the  constable, 
looking  keenly  at  Harriet,  then  down  the  street. 

"  Yes,  she  went  in  alone  to  put  her  things  on.  Be  quick, 
or  she'll  be  off!" 

"  I  understand  you  give  her  in  charge  1 " 

"Of  course  I  do." 

A  brisk  walk  of  two  or  three  minutes,  and  they  had 
caught  up  Ida,  who  turned  at  the  sound  of  the  quick  foot- 
steps, and  stood  in  surprise. 

"This  lady  charges  you  with  stealing  some  articles  of 
hers,"  said  the  constable,  looking  from  face  to  face.  "  You 
must  come  with  me  to  the  station." 

Ida  blanched.  When  the  policeman  had  spoken,  she 
turned  to  Harriet,  and  gazed  at  her  fixedly.  She  could 
neither  speak  nor  move.  The  constable  touched  her  arm 
impatiently.  Her  eyes  turned  to  him,  and  she  began  to 
walk  along  by  his  side. 

Harriet  followed  in  silence.  There  were  not  many  people 
on  the  way  to  the  police-station  in  King's  Road,  and  they 
reached  it  speedily.  They  came  before  the  inspector,  and 
the  constable  made  his  report. 

"  Have  xou  got  this  brooch  1 "  asked  the  inspector,  looking 
at  Ida. 

Ida  put  her  hand  into  one  of  her  jacket-pockets,  then 
into  the  other,  and  from  the  second  brought  out  the  object 
in  question.  It  was  of  gold,  and  had  been  given  by  Julian  to 
his  wife  just  after  their  marriage.  As  she  laid  it  before  her 
on  the  desk,  she  seemed  about  to  speak,  but  her  breath  failed, 
and  she  clutched  with  her  hands  at  the  nearest  suitport. 

"  Look  out,"  exclaimed  the  inspector.    "  Don't  let  her  fall." 

Five  or  six  times,  throughout  the  day  and  evening,  Way- 
mark  had  knocked  at  Ida's  door.  About  seven  o'clock  he 
had  called  at  the  Castis',  but  found  neither  of  them  at  home. 
Returning  thence  to  Fulliam,  he  had  walked  for  hours  up 
and  down,  in  vain  expectation  of  Ida's  coming.  There  was 
no  light  at  her  window. 

Just  before  midnight  he  readied  home,  having  on  his 
way  posted  a  letter  with  money  in  it.  As  he  reached  his 
door,  Julian  stood  there,  about  to  knock. 


196  THE  UNCLASSED 

"  Anything  amiss  ? "  Wayniark  asked,  examining  his  friend 
by  the  light  of  the  street-lamp. 

Julian  only  made  a  sign  to  him  to  open  the  door.  They 
went  upstairs  together,  and  Waymark  speedily  obtained  a 
light.  Julian  had  seated  himself  on  the  couch.  His  face 
was  ghastly. 

"  What's  the  matter  1 "  Waymark  asked  anxiously.  "  Do 
you  know  anything  about  Ida  ? " 

"  She's  locked  up  in  the  police  cells,"  was  the  reply.  "  My 
wife  has  accused  her  of  stealing  things  from  our  rooms." 

Waymark  stared  at  him. 

"  Casti,  what's  the  matter  with  you  1 "  he  exclaimed,  over- 
come with  fear,  in  spite  of  his  strong  self-command.  "  Are 
you  ill  1     Do  you  know  what  you're  saying  1 " 

Julian  rose  and  made  an  effort  to  control  himself. 

"  I  know  what  I'm  saying,  Waymark.  I've  only  just 
heard  it.  She  has  come  back  home  from  somewhere — only 
just  now — she  seems  to  have  been  drinking.  It  happened 
in  the  middle  of  the  day,  whilst  I  was  at  the  hospital.  She 
gave  her  in  charge  to  a  policeman  in  the  street,  and  a  brooch 
was  found  on  her." 

"A  brooch  found  on  her?     Your  wife's?" 

"  Yes.  When  she  came  in,  she  railed  at  me  like  a  fury, 
and  charged  me  with  the  most  monstrous  things.  I  can't 
and  won't  go  back  there  to-night !  I  shall  go  mad  if  I  hear 
her  voice.     I  will  walk  about  the  streets  till  morning." 

"And  you  tell  me  that  Ida  Starr  is  in  custody?" 

"  She  is.     My  wife  accuses  her  of  stealing  several  things." 

"And  you  believe  this?"  asked  Waymark,  under  his 
voice,  whilst  his  thoughts  pictured  Ida's  poverty,  of  which 
he  had  known  nothing,  and  led  him  through  a  long  traip  of 
miserable  sequences. 

"I  don't  know.  I  can't  say.  She  says  that  Ida  con- 
fessed, and  gave  the  brooch  up  at  once.  But  her  devilish 
malice  is  equal  to  anything.  I  see  into  her  character  as  I 
never  did  before.  Good  God,  if  you  covdd  have  seen  her 
face  as  she  told  me  !  And  Ida,  Ida  !  I  am  afraid  of  myself, 
Waymark.  If  I  had  stayed  to  listen  another  moment, 
I  should  have  struck  her.  It  seemed  as  if  every  vein,  was 
bursting.  How  am  I  ever  to  live  with  her  again  ?  I  dare 
not !  I  should  kill  her  in  some  moment  of  madness  !  What 
will  happen  to  Ida  ? " 

He  flung  himself  upon  the  couch,  and  burst  into  tears.    Sobs 


JUSTICE  197 

convulsed  him;  he  writhed  in  an  anguish  of  conflicting  passions. 
"Waymark  seemed  scarcely  to  observe  him,  standing  absorbed 
in  speculation  and  the  devising  of  a  course  to  be  pursued. 

"  I  must  go  to  the  police-station,"  he  said  at  length,  when 
the  violence  of  the  paroxysm  had  passed  and  left  Julian  in  the 
still  exhaustion  of  despair.  "  You,  I  thinlc,  had  better  stay 
here.     Is  there  any  danger  of  her  coming  to  seek  you  1 " 

Julian  made  a  motion  with  his  hand,  otherwise  lay  still, 
his  pale  face  turned  upwards. 

"  I  shall  be  back  very  quickly,"  Waymark  added,  taking 
his  hat.  Then,  turning  back  for  a  moment,  "  You  mustn't 
give  way  like  this,  old  fellow ;  this  is  horrible  weakness. 
Dare  I  leave  you  alone  1 " 

Julian  stretched  out  his  hand,  and  Waymark  pressed  it. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

JUSTICE 

Waymark  received  from  the  police  a  confirmation  of  all  that 
Julian  had  said,  and  returned  home.  Julian  still  lay  on  the 
couch,  calmer,  but  like  one  in  despair.  He  begged  Waymark 
to  let  him  remain  where  he  was  through  the  night,  declaring 
that  in  any  case  sleep  was  impossible  for  him,  and  that  per- 
haps he  might  try  to  pass  the  hours  in  reading.  They  talked 
together  for  a  time ;  then  Waymark  lay  down  on  the  bed 
and  shortly  slept. 

He  was  to  be  at  the  police  court  In  the  morning.  Julian 
would  go  to  the  hospital  as  usual. 

"  Shall  you  call  at  home  on  your  way  ?"  Waymark  asked  him. 

"No." 

•' But  what  do  you  mean  to  dol" 

"  I  must  think  during  the  day.  I  shall  come  to-night, 
and  you  will  tell  me  what  has  happened." 

So  they  parted,  and  Waymark  somehow  or  other  whiled 
away  the  time  till  it  was  the  hour  for  going  to  the  court. 
He  found  it  difficult  to  realise  the  situation ;  so  startling 
and  brought  about  so  suddenly.  Julian  had  been  the  first 
to  put  into  words  the  suspicion  of  them  both,  that  it  was 
all  a  deliberate  plot  of  Harriet's ;  but  he  had  not  been  able 
to  speak  of  his  own  position  freely  enough  to  let  Waymark 
understand   the   train   of  circumstances  which   coald  lead 


198  THE  UNCLASSED 

Harriet  to  such  resoluteness  of  infamy.  Waymark  doubted. 
But  for  the  unfortunate  fact  of  Ida's  secret  necessities,  he 
could  perhaps  scarcely  have  entertained  the  thought  of  her 
guilt.  What  was  the  explanation  of  her  being  without  em- 
ployment? Why  had  she  hesitated  to  tell  him,  as  soon  as 
she  lost  her  work?  Was  there  not  some  mystery  at  the 
bottom  of  this,  arguing  a  lack  of  complete  frankness  on 
Ida's  part  from  the  first  ? 

The  actual  pain  caused  by  Ida's  danger  was,  strange  to 
say,  a  far  less  important  item  in  his  state  of  mind  than  the 
interest  which  the  situation  inspired.  Through  the  night 
he  had  thought  more  of  Julian  than  of  Ida.  What  he  had 
for  some  time  suspected  had  now  found  confirmation  ;  Julian 
was  in  love  with  Ida,  in  love  for  the  first  time,  and  under 
circumstances  which,  as  Julian  himself  had  said,  might  well 
suffice  to  change  his  whole  nature.  Waymark  had  never 
beheld  such  terrible  suffering  as  that  depicted  on  his  friend's 
face  during  those  hours  of  talk  in  the  night.  Something  of 
jealousy  had  been  aroused  in  him  by  the  spectacle ;  not 
jealousy  of  the  ordinary  gross  kind,  but  rather  a  sense  of 
humiliation  in  the  thought  that  he  himself  had  never  ex- 
perienced, was  perhaps  incapable  of,  such  passion  as  racked 
Julian  in  every  nerve.  This  was  the  passion  which  Ida  was 
worthy  of  inspiring,  and  Waymark  contrasted  it  with  his 
own  feelings  on  the  previous  day,  and  now  since  the  calamity 
had  fallen.  He  had  to  confess  that  there  was  even  an  element 
of  relief  in  the  sensations  the  event  had  caused  in  him.  He 
had  been  saved  from  himself  ;  a  position  of  affairs  which  had 
become  intolerable  was  got  rid  of  without  his  own  exertion. 
Whatever  might  now  happen,  the  old  state  of  things  would 
never  be  restored.  There  was  relief  and  pleasure  in  the 
thought  of  such  a  change,  were  it  only  for  the  sake  of  the 
opening  up  of  new  vistas  of  observation  and  experience. 
Such  thoughts  as  these  indicated  very  strongly  the  course 
which  Waymark's  development  was  taking,  and  he  profited 
by  them  to  obtain  a  clearer  understanding  of  himself. 

The  proceedings  in  the  court  that  morning  were  brief. 
Waymark,  from  his  seat  on  the  public  benches,  saw  Ida 
brought  forward,  and  heard  her  remanded  for  a  week.  She 
did  not  see  him ;  seemed,  indeed,  to  see  nothing.  The 
aspect  of  her  standing  there  in  the  dock,  her  head  bowed 
under  intolerable  shame,  made  a  tumult  within  him.  Blind 
anger  and  scorn  against  aU  who  surrounded  her  were  his 


JUSTICE  199 

first  emotions;  there  was  something  of  martyrdom  in  her 
position ;  she,  essentiaUy  so  good  and  noble,  to  be  dragged 
here  before  these  narrow-natured  slaves  of  an  ignoble  social 
order,  in  all  probability  to  be  condemned  to  miserable  tor- 
ment by  men  who  had  no  shadow  of  understanding  of  her 
character  and  her  circumstances. 

Waymark  was  able,  whilst  in  court,  to  make  up  his  mind 
as  to  how  he  should  act.  When  he  left  he  took  his  way 
northwards,  having  in  view  St.  John  Street  Road,  and  Mr. 
Woodstock's  house. 

When  he  had  waited  about  half  an  hour,  the  old  man 
appeared.  He  gave  his  hand  in  silence.  Something  seemed 
to  be  preoccupying  him  ;  he  went  to  his  chair  in  a  mechanical 
way. 

"  I  have  come  on  rather  serious  business,"  Waymark  began. 
*'  I  want  to  ask  your  advice  in  a  very  disagreeable  matter — 
a  criminal  case,  in  fact." 

Abraham  did  not  at  once  pay  attention,  but  the  last  words 
presently  had  their  effect,  and  he  looked  up  with  some  surprise. 

"  What  have  you  been  up  to  ? "  he  asked,  with  rather  a 
grim  smile,  leaning  back  and  thrusting  his  hands  in  his 
pockets  in  the  usual  way. 

"  It  only  concerns  myself  indirectly.  It's  all  about  a  girl, 
who  is  charged  with  a  theft  she  is  perhaps  quite  innocent  of. 
If  so,  she  is  being  made  the  victim  of  a  conspiracy,  or  some- 
thing of  the  kind.  She  was  remanded  to-day  at  Westminster 
for  a  week." 

"  A  girl,  eh  1     And  what's  your  interest  in  the  business  1 " 

"Well,  if  you  don't  mind  I  shall  have  to  go  a  little  into 
detail.     You  are  at  liberty  1 " 

"  Go  on." 

"  She  is  a  friend  of  mine.  No,  I  mean  what  I  say  ;  there 
is  absolutely  notliing  else  between  us,  and  never  has  been. 
I  should  like  to  know  whether  you  are  satisfied  to  believe 
that ;  much  depends  on  it." 

"  Age  and  appearance  ? " 

"About  twenty  —  not  quite  so  much  —  and  strikingly 
handsome." 

"H'm.     Position  in  life  r' 

"  A  year  ago  was  on  the  streets,  to  put  it  jtlainly ;  since 
then  has  been  getting  her  living  at  laundry- work." 

"H'm.     Namer' 

"Ida  Starr." 


200  THE  UNCLASSED 

Mr.  Woodstock  had  been  gazing  at  the  toes  of  his  boots, 
still  the  same  smile  on  his  face.  When  he  heard  the  name 
he  ceased  to  smile,  but  did  not  move  at  all.  Nor  did  he 
look  up  as  he  asked  the  next  question. 

"Is  that  her  real  name?" 

"  I  believe  so." 

The  old  man  drew  up  his  feet,  threw  one  leg  over  the 
other,  and  began  to  tap  upon  his  knee  with  the  fingers  of  one 
hand.     He  was  silent  for  a  minute  at  least. 

*'  What  do  you  know  about  her  ? "  he  then  inquired,  look- 
ing steadily  at  Wayniark,  with  a  gravity  which  surprised 
the  latter.  "  I  mean,  of  her  earlier  life.  Do  you  know  who 
she  is  at  all  1 " 

"  She  has  told  me  her  whole  story — a  rather  uncommon 
one,  full  of  good  situations." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? " 

The  words  were  uttered  with  such  harsh  impatience  that 
Waymark  started. 

"What  annoys  you?"  he  asked,  with  surprise. 

"  Tell  me  something  of  the  story,"  said  the  other,  regaining 
his  composure,  and  apparently  wishing  to  affect  indifference. 
"  I  have  a  twinge  of  that  damned  rheumatism  every  now  and 
then,  and  it  makes  me  rather  crusty.  Do  you  think  her 
story  is  to  be  depended  upon  1 " 

"  Yes,  I  believe  it  is." 

And  Waymark  linked  briefly  the  chief  points  of  Ida's 
history,  as  he  knew  it,  the  old  man  continually  interrupting 
him  with  questions. 

"  Now  go  on,"  said  Abraham,  when  he  had  heard  all  that 
Waymark  knew,  "and  explain  the  scrape  she's  got  into." 

Waymark  did  so. 

"And  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  Abraham  said,  before  the 
story  was  quite  finished,  "that  there's  been  nothing  more 
between  you  than  that  ?  " 

"  Absolutely  nothing." 

"  I  don't  believe  you." 

It  was  said  angrily,  and  with  a  blow  of  the  clenched  fist 
on  the  table.  The  old  man  could  no  longer  conceal  the 
emotion  that  possessed  him.  Waymark  looked  at  him  in 
astonishment,  unable  to  comprehend  his  behaviour. 

"  Well  if  you  don't  believe  me,  of  course  I  can  oflfer  no 
proof;  and  I  know  well  enough  that  every  presumption  is 
against  me.    Still,  I  tell  you  the  plain  fact ;  and  what  reason 


JUSTICE  20I 

have  I  for  hiding  the  truth  ?  If  I  had  been  living  with  the 
gill,  I  should  have  said  so,  as  an  extra  reason  for  asking  your 
help  in  the  matter." 

"What  help  can  I  give?"  asked  Woodstock,  again  cooling 
down,  though  his  eyes  had  in  them  a  most  unwonted  light. 
He  spoke  as  if  simply  asking  for  infomiation. 

"  I  thought  you  might  suggest  something  as  to  modes  of 
defence,  and  the  like.  The  expenses  I  would  somehow  or 
other  meet  myself.    It  appears  that  she  will  plead  not  guilty." 

"And  what's  your  belief ?" 

"  I  can't  make  up  my  mind." 

"  In  that  case,  it  seems  to  me,  you  ought  to  give  her  the 
benefit  of  the  doubt ;  especially  as  you  seem  to  have  made 
up  your  mind  pretty  clearly  about  this  Mrs.  AVhat's-her-name." 

Waymark  was  silent,  looking  at  INIr.  Woodstock,  and 
reflecting. 

"What  are  your  intentions  with  regard  to  the  girl?" 
Abraham  asked,  with  a  change  in  his  voice,  the  usual 
friendhness  coming  back.  He  looked  at  the  young  man 
in  a  curious  way ;  one  would  almost  have  said,  with  appre- 
hensive expectation. 

"  I  have  no  intentions." 

"  You  would  have  had,  but  for  this  affair  1 " 

"  No ;  you  are  mistaken.  I  know  the  position  is  difficult 
to  realise," 

"Have  you  intentions,  then,  in  any  other  quarter?" 

"Well,. perhaps  yes." 

"  I've  never  heard  anything  of  this." 

"  I  could  scarcely  talk  of  a  matter  so  uncertain." 

There  was  silence.  A  sort  of  agitation  came  upon  the  old 
man  ever  and  again,  in  talking.  He  now  grew  absorbed  in 
thought,  and  remained  thus  for  several  minutes,  Waymark 
looking  at  him  the  v^'hile.  When  at  length  Abraham  raised 
his  eyes,  and  they  met  Waymark's,  he  turned  them  away  at 
once,  and  rose  from  the  chair. 

"  I'll  look  into  the  business,"  he  said,  taking  out  a  bunch 
of  keys,  and  putting  one  into  the  lock  of  a  drawer  in  his 
desk.  "Yes,  I'll  go  and  make  inquiries."  He  half  pulled 
out  the  drawer  and  rustled  among  some  papers. 

"  Look  here,''  he  said,  on  the  point  of  taking  something 
out;  but,  even  in  spuakiiig,  ho  altered  his  mind.  "No;  it 
don't  matter.  I'll  go  and  make  inquiries.  You  can  go  now, 
if  you  Like ; —  I  mean  to  say,  I  suppose  you've  told  me  all 


202  THE  UNCLASSED 

that's  necessary. — Yes,  you'd  better  go,  and  look  in  again  to- 
morrow morning." 

"Waymark  went  straight  to  Fulham.  Reaching  the  block 
of  tenements  which  had  been  Ida's  home,  he  sought  out  the 
porter.  When  the  door  opened  at  his  knock,  the  first  face 
that  greeted  him  was  that  of  Grim,  who  had  pushed  between 
tlie  man's  legs  and  was  peering  up,  as  if  in  search  of  some 
familiar  aspect. 

From  the  porter  he  learned  that  the  police  had  made 
that  afternoon  an  inspection  of  Ida's  rooms,  though  with 
what  result  was  not  known.  The  couple  had  clearly  formed 
their  own  opinion  as  to  Waymark's  interest  in  the  accused 
girl,  but  took  the  position  in  a  very  matter-of-fact  way,  and 
were  eager  to  hear  more  than  they  succeeded  in  getting  out 
of  the  police. 

"  My  main  object  in  coming,"  Waymark  explained,  "  was 
to  look  after  her  cat.  I  see  you  have  been  good  enough  to 
anticipate  me." 

"  The  poor  thing  takes  on  sadly,"  said  the  woman.  "  Of 
course  I  shouldn't  have  known  nothing  if  the  hofficers  hadn't 
come,  and  it  'ud  just  have  starved  to  death.  It  seems  to 
know  you,  sir  1 " 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  dare  say.  Do  you  think  you  could  make 
it  convenient  to  keep  the  cat  for  the  present,  if  I  paid  you 
for  its  food  ? " 

"  WeU,  I  don't  see  why  not,  sir ;  we  ain't  got  none  of  our 
own." 

"And  you  would  promise  me  to  be  kind  to  it?  I  don't 
mind  the  expense ;  keep  it  well,  and  let  me  know  what  you 
spend.     Ajid  of  course  I  should  consider  your  trouble." 

So  that  matter  was  satisfactorily  arranged,  and  Waymark 
went  home. 

Julian  spent  his  day  at  the  hospital  as  usual,  finding 
relief  in  fixing  his  attention  upon  outward  things.  It  was 
only  when  he  left  his  work  in  the  evening  that  he  became 
aware  how  exhausted  he  was  in  mind  and  body.  And  the 
dread  which  he  had  hitherto  kept  ofi"  came  back  upon  him, 
the  dread  of  seeing  his  wife's  face  and  hearing  her  voice. 
When  he  parted  with  Waymark  in  the  morning,  he  had 
thought  that  he  would  be  able  to  come  to  some  resolution 
during  the  day  as  to  his  behaviour  with  regard  to  her.  But 
no  sucli  decision  had  been  formed,  and  his  overtaxed  mind 
could  do  no  moi'e  than  dwell  Avith  dull  persistency  on  a  long 


JUSTICE  ao3 

prospect  of  wretchedness.  Fear  and  hatred  moved  him  in 
turns,  and  the  fear  was  as  much  of  himself  as  of  the  object 
of  his  hate. 

As  he  approached  the  door,  a  man  came  out  whom  he  did 
not  know,  but  whose  business  he  suspected.  He  had  little 
doubt  that  it  was  a  police  officer  in  plain  clothes.  He  had 
to  stand  a  moment  and  rest,  before  he  could  use  his  latch- 
key to  admit  himself.  When  he  entered  the  sitting-room, 
he  found  the  table  spread  as  usual.  Harriet  was  sitting 
with  sewing  upon  her  lap.     She  did  not  look  at  him. 

He  sat  down,  and  closed  his  eyes.  There  seemed  to  be  a 
ringing  of  great  bells  about  him,  overpowering  every  other 
sound ;  all  his  muscles  had  become  relaxed  and  powerless ; 
he  half  forgot  where  and  under  what  circumstances  he  was, 
in  a  kind  of  deadly  drowsiness.  Presently  this  passed,  and 
he  grew  aware  that  Harriet  was  preparing  tea.  When  it 
was  ready,  he  went  to  the  table,  and  drank  two  or  three 
cups,  for  he  was  parched  with  thirst.  He  could  not  look  at 
Harriet,  but  he  understood  the  mood  she  was  in,  and  knew 
she  would  not  be  the  first  to  speak.  He  rose,  walked  about 
for  a  few  minutes,  then  stood  still  before  her. 

""What  proof  have  you  to  offer,"  he  said,  speaking  in  a 
slow  but  indistinct  tone,  "  that  she  is  guilty  of  this,  and  that 
it  isn't  a  plot  you  have  laid  against  her  ? " 

"You  can  believe  what  you  like,"  she  replied  sullenly. 
"  Of  course  I  know  you'll  do  your  worst  against  me." 

"  I  wish  you  to  answer  my  question.  If  I  choose  to  sus- 
pect that  you  yourself  put  this  brooch  in  her  pocket — and  if 
other  people  choose  to  suspect  the  same,  knowing  your  enmity 
against  her,  what  proof  can  you  give  that  she  is  guilty  1 " 

"  It  isn't  the  first  thing  she's  stolen." 

"  What  proof  have  you  that  she  took  those  other  things  ? " 

"  Quite  enough,  I  think.  At  all  events,  they've  found  a 
pawn-ticket  for  the  spoon  at  her  lodgings,  among  a  whole  lot 
of  other  tickets  for  things  she  can't  have  come  by  honestly." 

Julian  became  silent,  and,  as  Harriet  looked  up  at  him 
with  eyes  full  of  triumphant  spite,  he  turned  pale.  He 
could  have  crushed  the  hateful  face  beneath  his  feet. 

"  You're  a  good  husband,  you  are,"  Harriet  went  on,  with 
a  sudden  change  to  anger ;  "  taking  part  against  your  own 
wife,  and  trying  to  make  her  out  all  that's  bad.  But  I  think 
you've  had  thing's  your  own  way  long  enough.  You  thought 
I  was  a  fool,  did  you,  and  couldn't  see  what  was  going  on  ? 


204  THE  UNCLASSED 

You  and  your  Ida  Starr,  indeed  !  Oh,  she  would  be  such  a 
good  friend  to  me,  wouldn't  she  ?  She  would  do  me  so  much 
good ;  you  thought  so  highly  of  her ;  she  was  just  the  very 
girl  to  be  my  companion ;  how  lucky  we  found  her !  I'm 
much  obliged  to  you,  but  I  tliink  I  might  have  better  friends 
tlian  thieves  and  street- walkers." 

"  What  do  you  mean  1 "  asked  Julian,  starting  at  the  last 
word,  and  turning  a  ghastly  countenance  on  her. 

"  I  mean  what  I  say.     As  if  you  didn't  know,  indeed  ! " 

"  Explain  what  you  mean,"  Julian  repeated,  almost  with 
violence.     *'  Who  has  said  anything  of  that  kind  against  her  ? " 

"  Who  has  ?  Wliy  I  can  bring  half  a  dozen  people  who 
knew  her  when  she  was  on  the  streets,  before  Waymark  kept 
her.     And  you  knew  it,  well  enough — no  fear !  " 

"  It's  a  lie,  a  cursed  lie  !  No  one  can  say  a  word  against 
her  purity.     Only  a  foul  mind  could  imagine  such  things." 

"  Purity  !  Oh  yes,  she's  very  pure — you  know  that,  don't 
you  ?  No  doubt  you'll  be  a  witness,  and  give  evidence  for 
her,  and  against  me ; — let  everybody  know  how  perfect  she 
is,  and  what  a  beast  and  a  liar  I  am !    You  and  your  Ida  Starr ! " 

Julian  rushed  out  of  the  room. 

Waymark  could  not  but  observe  peculiarities  in  Mr. 
Woodstock's  behaviour  during  the  conversation  about  Ida. 
At  first  it  had  occurred  to  him — knowing  a  good  deal  of 
Abraham's  mode  of  life — that  there  must  be  some  disagree- 
able secret  at  the  bottom,  and  for  a  moment  the  ever-recurring 
distrust  of  Ida  rose  again.  But  he  had  soon  observed  that 
the  listener  was  especially  interested  in  the  girl's  earliest 
years,  and  this  pointed  to  possibilities  of  a  different  kind. 
What  was  it  that  was  being  taken  from  the  drawer  to  show 
him,  when  the  old  man  suddenly  altered  his  mind  1  Mr. 
Woodstock  had  perhaps  known  Ida's  parents.  Waymark 
waited  with  some  curiosity  for  the  interview  on  the  morrow. 

Accordingly,  he  was  surprised  when,  on  presenting  himself, 
Mr.  Woodstock  did  not  at  first  appear  to  remember  what  he 
had  called  about. 

"  Oh,  ay,  the  girl ! "  Abraham  exclaimed,  on  being  reminded. 
"  What  did  you  say  her  name  was  ?     Ida  something  " 

Waymark  was  puzzled  and  suspicious,  and  showed  both 
feelings  in  his  looks,  but  Mr.  Woodstock  preserved  a  stolid 
indifl'erence  which  it  was  very  difficult  to  believe  feigned. 

"I've  been  busy,"  said  the  latter.     "Never  mind  ;  there's 


JUSTICE  205 

time.  She  was  remanded  for  a  week,  you  said?  I'll  go 
and  see  Helter  about  her.  May  as  well  come  along  with 
me,  and  put  the  case  in  'artistic'  form." 

It  was  a  word  frequently  on  Waymark's  lips,  and  he 
recognised  the  unwonted  touch  of  satire  with  a  smile,  but 
was  yet  more  puzzled.  They  set  out  together  to  the  office 
of  the  solicitor  who  did  Abraham's  legal  business,  and  held 
witli  him  a  long  colloquy.  Waymark  stated  all  he  knew  or 
could  surmise  with  perfect  frankness.  He  had  heard  from 
Julian  the  night  before  of  the  discovery  which  it  was  said 
the  police  had  made  at  Ida's  lodgings,  and  this  had  strength- 
ened his  fear  that  Harriet's  accusation  was  genuine. 

"How  did  this  girl  lose  her  place  at  the  laundry?"  asked 
Mr.  Helter. 

Waymark  could  not  say ;  for  all  he  knew  it  was  through 
her  own  fault. 

"And  that's  all  you  can  tell  us,  Waymark?"  observed 
Mr.  Woodstock,  who  had  listened  with  a  show  of  indiffer- 
ence. "  Well,  I  have  no  more  time  at  present.  Look  the 
thing  up,  Helter." 

On  reaching  home,  Waymark  wrote  a  few  lines  to  Ida, 
merely  to  say  that  Grim  was  provided  for,  and  assure  her 
that  she  was  not  forgotten.  In  a  day  or  two  he  received  a 
reply.  The  official  envelope  almost  startled  him  at  first. 
Inside  was  written  this : 

"  You  have  been  kind.  I  thank  you  for  everything.  Try 
to  think  kindly  of  me,  whatever  happens ;  I  shall  be  con- 
scious of  it,  and  it  will  give  me  strength,  I.  S." 

The  week  went  by,  and  Ida  again  appeared  in  court. 
Mr.  Woodstock  Avent  with  Waymark,  out  of  curiosity,  he 
said.  The  statement  of  the  case  against  the  prisoner  sounded 
very  grave.  What  Harriet  had  said  about  the  discovery  of 
the  pawn  ticket  for  her  silver  spoon  was  true.  Ida's  face 
was  calm,  but  paler  yet  and  thinner.  When  she  caught 
siglit  of  Harriet  Casti,  she  turned  her  eyes  away  quickly, 
and  with  a  look  of  trouble.  She  desired  to  ask  no  question, 
simply  gave  her  low  and  distinct  "Not  guilty."  She  was 
committed  for  trial. 

Waymark  watched  IMr.  Woodstock,  who  was  examining 
Ida  all  the  time  ;  lie  felt  sure  that  he  heard  something  like  a 
catching  of  the  breath  when  the  girl's  face  first  became  visible. 


ao6  THE  UNCLASSED 

"  And  what's  your  opinion  1 "  asked  Waymark. 

"  I  couldn't  see  the  girl  very  well,"  said  the  old  man  coldly. 

"  She  hasn't  quite  a  fortnight  to  wait." 

"No." 

"  You're  sure  Helter  will  do  all  that  can  be  done  ? " 

"Yes." 

Mr.  "Woodstock  nodded  his  head,  and  walked  off  by  himself. 

Julian  Casti  was  ill.  With  difficulty  he  had  dragged 
himself  to  the  court,  and  his  sufferings  as  he  sat  there  were 
horribly  evident  on  his  white  face.  Waymark  met  him  just 
as  Mr.  Woodstock  walked  oflF,  and  the  two  went  home  to- 
gether by  omnibus,  not  speaking  on  the  way. 

"  She  will  be  convicted,"  was  Julian's  first  utterance, 
when  he  had  sat  for  a  few  minutes  in  Waymark's  room, 
whilst  Waymark  himself  paced  up  and  down.  The  latter 
turned,  and  saw  that  tears  wove  on  his  friends  hollow  cheeks. 

"Did  you  sleep  better  last  night?"  he  asked. 

"  Good  God,  no !  I  never  closed  my  eyes.  That's  the 
third  night  without  rest.  Waymark,  get  me  an  opiate  of 
some  kind,  or  I  shall  kill  myself;  and  let  me  sleep  here." 

"  What  will  your  wife  say  1 " 

"  What  do  I  care  what  she  says ! "  cried  Julian,  with 
sudden  excitement,  his  muscles  quivering,  and  his  cheeks 
flaming  all  at  once.  "  Don't  use  that  word  '  wife,'  it  is  pro- 
fanation ;  I  can't  bear  it  I  If  I  see  her  to-night,  I  can't 
answer  for  what  I  may  do.     Curse  her  to  all  eternity  ! " 

He  sank  back  in  exhaustion. 

"Julian,"  said  Waymark,  using  his  friend's  first  name  by 
exception,  "  if  this  goes  on,  you  will  be  ill.  What  the 
deuce  shall  we  do  then?" 

"No,  I  shall  not  be  ill.    It  will  be  all  right  if  I  can  get  sleep." 

He  was  silent  for  a  little,  then  spoke,  with  his  eyes  on 
the  ground. 

"  Waymark,  is  this  true  they  say  about  her — about  the 
former  time  ? " 

"  Yes ;  it  is  true." 

Waymark  in  turn  was  silent 

"I  suppose,"  he  continued  presently,  "I  owe  you  an 
apology." 

"  None.     It  was  right  of  you  to  act  as  you  did." 

He  was  going  to  say  something  else,  but  checked  himself. 
Waymark  noticed  this,  watched  his  face  for  a  moment,  and 
spoke  with  some  earnestness. 


JUSTICE  207 

"  But  it  was  in  that  only  I  misled  you.  Do  you  believe 
me  when  I  repeat  that  she  and  I  were  never  anything  but 
friends?" 

Julian  looked  up  with  a  gleam  of  gratitude  in  his  eyes. 

"  Yes,  I  believe  you  ! " 

"  And  be  sure  of  this,"  Waymark  went  on,  "  whether  or 
not  this  accusation  is  true,  it  does  not  in  the  least  affect  the 
nobility  of  her  character.  You  and  I  are  sufficiently  honest, 
in  the  true  sense  of  the  word,  to  understand  this." 

AVaymark  only  saw  Mr.  Woodstock  once  or  twice  in  the 
next  fortnight,  and  very  slight  mention  was  made  between 
them  of  the  coming  trial.  He  himself  was  not  to  be  in- 
volved in  the  case  in  any  way ;  as  a  witness  on  Ida's  side  he 
could  do  no  good,  and  probably  would  prejudice  her  yet 
more  in  the  eyes  of  the  jury.  It  troubled  him  a  little  to 
find  with  what  complete  calmness  he  could  await  the  result ; 
often  he  said  to  himself  that  he  must  be  sadly  lacking  in 
human  sympathy.  Julian  Casti,  on  the  other  hand,  had 
passed  into  a  state  of  miserable  deadness ;  Waymark  in  vain 
tried  to  excite  hope  in  him.  He  came  to  his  friend's  every 
evening,  and  sat  there  for  hours  in  dark  reverie. 

"What  will  become  of  her?"  Julian  asked  once.  "In 
either  case — what  will  become  of  her  1 " 

"Woodstock  shall  help  us  in  that,"  Waymark  replied. 
"  She  must  get  a  place  of  some  kind." 

"  How  dreadfully  she  is  suffering,  and  how  dark  life  will 
be  before  her  ! " 

And  so  the  day  of  the  trial  came.  The  paM'nbroker's 
evidence  was  damaging.  The  silver  spoon  had  been  pledged, 
he  asserted,  at  the  same  time  with  another  article  for  which 
Ida  possessed  the  duplicate.  The  inscriptions  on  the  dupli- 
cates supported  him  in  this,  and  he  professed  to  have  not  the 
least  doubt  as  to  the  prisoner's  identity.  Pressed  in  cross- 
examination,  he  certainly  threw  some  suspicion  on  the  trust- 
worthiness of  his  assertions.  "You  positively  swear  that 
these  two  articles  were  pledged  by  the  prisoner,  and  at  the 
same  time?"  asked  the  cross-examiner.  "Well,"  was  the 
impatient  reply,  "  there's  the  same  date  and  name,  and  both 
in  my  writing."  But  even  thus  much  of  doubt  he  speedily  re- 
tracted, and  his  evidence  could  not  be  practically  undermined. 

Harriet's  examination  was  long  and  searching,  but  she 
bore  it  without  the  slightest  damage  to  her  credit.  Plain, 
straightforward,    and   stubborn   were   all    her    replies    and 


2o8  THE  UNCLASSED 

assertions ;  she  did  not  contradict  herself  once.  Waymark 
marvelled  at  her  appearance  and  manner.  The  venom  of 
malice  had  acted  upon  her  as  a  tonic,  strengthening  her 
intellect,  and  bracing  her  nerves.  Once  she  looked  directly 
into  Ida's  face  and  smiled. 

Mrs.  Sprowl  had  been  summoned,  and  appeared  in  all  the 
magnificence  of  accumulated  rings,  bracelets,  necklaces,  and 
watch-chains.     Hclter  hoped  to  make  good  use  of  her. 

"  Did  you  on  a  certain  occasion  go  to  the  person  in  whose 
employ  the  prisoner  was,  and,  by  means  of  certain  representa- 
tions with  regard  to  the  prisoner's  antecedents,  become  the 
cause  of  her  dismissal  ? " 

"  I  did.  I  told  all  I  knew  about  her,  and  I  consider  I'd 
a  right  to  do  so." 

IMrs.  Sprowl  was  not  to  be  robbed  of  her  self-assurance 
by  any  array  of  judicial  dignity. 

"What  led  you  to  do  this?" 

"  A  good  enough  one,  I  think.  She'd  been  imposed  on 
Mr,  Casti  and  his  wife  as  a  respectable  character,  and  she 
was  causing  trouble  between  them.  She  had  to  be  got' rid 
of  somehow,  and  this  was  one  step  to  it." 

"  Was  Mrs.  Casti  aware  of  your  intention  to  take  this  step?" 

"  No,  she  wasn't." 

"  But  you  told  her  when  you  had  done  it  1 " 

"Yes,  I  did." 

The  frankness  of  aU  this  had  its  effect,  of  course.  The 
case  was  attracting  much  interest  in  court,  and  the  public 
seats  were  quite  full.  Mrs.  Sprowl  looked  round  in  evident 
enjoyment  of  her  position.  There  was  a  slight  pause,  and 
then  the  examination  continued. 

"  Of  what  nature  was  the  trouble  you  speak  of,  caused  by 
the  prisoner  between  this  lady  and  her  husband  ? " 

"  Mr.  Casti  began  to  pay  a  good  deal  too  much  attention 
to  her." 

There  was  a  sound  of  whispers  and  a  murmuring. 

"  Did  Mrs.  Casti  impart  to  you  her  suspicions  of  the 
prisoner  as  soon  as  she  missed  the  first  of  these  articles 
alleged  to  be  stolen?" 

"Yes,  she  did." 

"And  did  you  give  any  advice  as  to  how  she  should  proceed?" 

"I  told  her  to  be  on  the  look-out." 

"No  doubt  you  laid  stress  on  the  advantage,  from  a 
domestic  point  of  view,  of  securing  this  prisoner's  detection  ?  " 


JUSTICE  209 

"Certainly  I  did,  and  I  hoped  and  prayed  as  she  might 
be  caught ! " 

Mrs.  Sprowl  was  very  shortly  allowed  to  retire.  For  the 
defence  there  was  hut  one  witness,  and  that  was  the  laundress 
who  had  employed  Ida.  Personal  favdt  with  Ida  she  had 
none  at  all  to  find ;  the  sole  cause  of  her  dismissal  was  the 
information  given  by  INIrs.  Sprowl.  Perhaps  she  had  acted 
hastily  and  unkindly,  but  she  had  young  girls  working  in 
the  laundry,  and  it  behoved  her  to  be  careful  of  them. 

Julian's  part  in  the  trial  had  been  limited  to  an  examina- 
tion as  to  his  knowledge  of  Ida's  alleged  thefts.  He  declared 
that  he  knew  nothin;^'  save  from  his  wife's  statements  to  him. 
He  had  observed  nothing  in  the  least  suspicious. 

A  verdict  was  returned  of  "Guilty." 

Had  the  prisoner  anything  to  say?  Nothing  whatever. 
There  was  a  pause,  a  longer  pause  than  seemed  necessary. 
Then,  without  remark,  she  was  sentenced  to  be  imprisoned 
for  six  months  with  hard  labour. 

Waymark  had  been  drawn  to  the  court  in  spite  of  himself. 
Strangely  quiet  hitherto,  a  fear  fell  upon  him  the  night 
before  the  trial.  From  an  early  hour  in  the  morning  he 
walked  about  the  streets,  circling  ever  nearer  to  the  hateful 
place.  All  at  once  he  found  himself  facing  IMr.  Woodstock. 
The  old  man's  face  was  darkly  anxious,  and  he  could  not 
change  its  expression  quickly  enough. 

"  Are  you  going  in  ? "  he  said  sharply. 

"  Are  you  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"Then  I  shall  not,"  said  Waymark.  "I'U  go  to  your 
place,  and  wait  there." 

But  when  Abraham,  whose  eyes  had  not  moved  from  the 
prisoner  throughout  the  proceedings,  rose  at  length  to  leave, 
a  step  or  two  brought  him  to  a  man  who  was  leaning  against 
the  wall,  powerless  from  conflicting  excitement,  and  deadly 
pale.  It  was  Waymark.  Mr.  Woodstock  took  him  by  the 
arm  and  led  him  out. 

"  Why  couldn't  you  keep  away  1 "  the  old  man  exclaimed 
hoarsely,  and  with  more  of  age  in  his  voice  than  any  one 
had  ever  yet  heard  in  it. 

Waymark  shook  himself  free,  and  laughed  as  one  laughs 
under  tonnent. 


9IO  THE  UNCLASSED 

CHAPTER  XXV 

.     ART  AND  MISERY 

One  Monday  afternoon  at  the  end  of  October— three  months 
had  gone  by  since  the  trial — Waymark  carried  his  rents  to 
St.  John  Street  Road  as  usual. 

"I'm  going  to  Tottenham,"  said  Mr.  Woodstock,  "Yon 
may  as  well  come  with  me." 

"  By  the  by,  I  finished  ray  novel  the  other  day,"  Waymark 
said,  as  they  drove  northward. 

"  That's  right.  No  doubt  you're  on  your  way  to  glory,  as 
the  hymn  says." 

Abraham  was  in  good  spirits.  One  would  have  said  that 
he  had  grown  younger  of  late.  That  heaviness  and  tfndency 
to  absent  brooding  which  not  long  ago  seemed  tn  indicate 
the  tightening  grip  of  age,  was  disappearing ;  he  was  once 
more  active  and  loud  and  full  of  his  old  interests. 

"  How's  Casti  1 "  iSir.  Woodstock  went  on  to  ask. 

"  A  good  deal  better,  I  think,  but  shaky.  Of  course  things 
will  be  as  bad  as  ever  when  his  wife  comes  out  of  the  hospital." 

"Pity  she  can't  come  out  heels  first,"  muttered  Abraham. 

Waymark  found  that  the  purpose  of  their  journey  was 
to  inspect  a  large  vacant  house,  with  a  good  garden  and 
some  fine  trees  about  it.  The  old  man  wished  for  his 
opinion,  and,  by  degrees,  let  it  be  known  that  he  thought 
of  buying  the  property. 

"  I  suppose  you  think  me  an  old  fool  to  want  a  house  like 
this  at  my  time  of  life,  eh  ?  " 

There  was  a  twinkle  in  his  eye,  and  a  moment  after  he 
fairly  burst  into  a  laugh  of  pleasure.  Waymark  asked  no 
questions,  and  received  no  more  information  ;  but  a  thought 
rose  in  his  mind  which  occupied  him  for  the  rest  of  the  day. 

In  the  evening  Julian  came.  He  looked  like  one  who 
had  recovered  from  a  long  illness,  very  pale  and  thin,  and 
his  voice  had  tremblings  and  uncertainties  of  key.  In  fact, 
a  feverish  disorder  had  been  upon  him  for  some  weeks, 
never  severe  enough  to  prevent  his  getting  about,  but 
weakening  him  to  a  serious  degree.  It  would  doubtless 
have  developed  into  some  more  pronounced  illness,  but  for 
the  period  of  comparative  rest  and  quietness  which  had 
begun   shortly  after  the    miseries  of  the    trial.     Harriet's 


ART  AND  MISERY  211 

ailments  had  all  at  once  taken  such  a  decided  turn  for  the 
•worse — her  fits  hecoming  mcessant,  and  other  disorders 
traceahle  to  the  same  source  suddenly  taking  hold  upon  her 
— that  Julian  had  obtained  her  admission  to  the  hospital, 
where  she  still  remained.  He  went  to  see  her  in  the  ward 
two  or  three  times  a  week,  though  he  dreaded  the  necessity. 
From  little  incidents  which  occurred  at  such  times,  he  was 
convinced  that  all  her  fellow-patients,  as  well  as  the  "sister" 
and  nurses  of  the  wards,  had  been  prejudiced  against  him 
by  her  reports  and  accusations.  To  meet  their  looks  occa- 
sioned him  the  most  acute  suffering.  Sometimes  he  sat  by 
the  bedside  for  half  an  hour  without  speaking,  then  rose  and 
hastened  away  to  hide  himself  and  be  alone  with  his  misery. 

He  was  earnest  and  eager  to-night  in  his  praise  of  Way- 
mark's  book,  which  he  had  just  read  in  manuscript. 

•'  It  is  horrible,"  he  exclaimed ;  "  often  hideous  and  re- 
volting to  me ;  but  I  feel  its  absolute  truth.  Such  a  book 
will  do  more  good  than  half  a  dozen  religious  societies." 

"  If  only  people  can  be  got  to  read  it.  Yet  I  care  nothing 
for  that  aspect  of  the  thing.  Is  it  artistically  strong  1  Is  it 
good  as  a  picture  ?  There  was  a  time  when  I  might  have 
written  in  this  way  with  a  declared  social  object.  That  is  all 
gone  by.  I  have  no  longer  a  spark  of  social  enthusiasm.  Art 
is  all  I  now  care  for,  and  as  art  I  wish  my  work  to  be  judged." 

"  One  would  have  thought,"  said  Julian,  "  that  increased 
knowledge  of  these  fearful  things  would  have  had  just  the 
opposite  effect." 

"  Yes,"  exclaimed  the  other,  with  the  smUe  which  always 
prefaced  some  piece  of  self-dissection,  "  and  so  it  would  in 
the  case  of  a  man  born  to  be  a  radical.  I  often  amuse 
myself  with  taking  to  pieces  my  former  self.  I  was  not 
a  conscious  hypocrite  in  those  days  of  violent  radicalism, 
working-man's-club  lecturing,  and  the  like;  the  fault  was 
that  I  understood  myself  as  yet  so  imperfectly.  That  zeal 
on  behalf  of  the  suffering  masses  was  nothing  more  nor  less 
than  disguised  zeal  on  behalf  of  my  own  starved  passions. 
I  was  poor  and  desperate,  life  had  no  pleasures,  the  future 
seemed  hopeless,  yet  I  was  overflowing  with  vehement 
desires,  every  nerve  in  me  was  a  hunger  which  cried  to  be 
appeased.  I  identified  myself  with  the  poor  and  ignorant ; 
I  did  not  make  their  cause  my  own,  but  my  own  cause 
theira,  I  raved  for  freedom  because  I  was  myself  in  the 
bondage  of  unsatisfiable  longing." 


212  THE  UNCLASSED 

"Well,"  he  went  on,  after  regarding  his  listener  with 
still  the  same  smile,  "  I  have  come  out  of  all  that,  in  pro- 
portion as  my  artistic  self-consciousness  has  developed.  For 
one  thing,  I  am  not  so  miserable  as  I  was  then,  personally ; 
then  again,  I  have  found  my  vocation.  You  know  pretty 
well  the  phases  I  have  passed  through.  Upon  ranting 
radicalism  followed  a  period  of  philosophical  study.  My 
philosophy,  I  have  come  to  see,  was  worth  nothing;  what 
philosophy  is  worth  anything?  It  had  its  use  for  myself, 
however ;  it  made  me  by  degrees  self-conscious,  and  brought 
me  to  see  that  in  art  alone  I  could  find  full  satisfaction." 

"  Yet,"  urged  Julian,  "  the  old  direction  still  shows  itself 
in  your  choice  of  subjects.  Granting  that  this  is  pure  art, 
it  is  a  kind  of  art  only  possible  to  an  age  in  which  the  social 
question  is  predominant." 

"  True,  very  likely.  Every  strong  individuality  is  more 
or  less  the  expression  of  its  age.  This  direction  may  be  im- 
posed upon  me ;  for  all  that,  I  understand  why  I  pursue  it," 

After  reflecting,  Julian  spoke  in  another  tone.  "  Imagine 
yourself  in  my  position.  Could  you  appreciate  the  artistic 
effect  of  your  own  circumstances  t " 

"  Probably  not.  And  it  is  because  I  recognise  that,  that 
I  grow  more  and  more  careful  to  hold  aloof  from  situations 
that  would  threaten  my  peace  of  mind.  My  artistic  egotism 
bids  fair  to  ally  itself  with  vulgar  selfishness.  That  tendency 
I  must  resist.  For  the  artist  oui/ht  to  be  able  to  make  material 
of  his  own  sufferings,  even  while  the  suffering  is  at  its  height. 
To  what  other  end  does  he  suffer?  In  very  deed,  he  is  the 
only  man  whose  misery  finds  justification  in  apparent  result." 

"  I  am  not  an  artist,"  sighed  Julian. 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  firmly  believe  that  you  are.  And  it 
makes  me  angry  to  see  the  impulse  dying  in  you." 

"  What  am  I  to  do  ? "  Julian  cried,  almost  with  a  voice 
of  anguish.  "  I  am  so  helpless,  so  hopelessly  fettered ! 
Release  is  impossible.  No  words  could  express  the  desperate 
struggles  I  go  through  when  I  recognise  how  my  life  is 
being  wasted  and  my  powers,  whatever  they  may  be,  numbed 
and  crushed.  Something  I  might  do,  if  I  were  free ;  I  feel 
til  at !  But  there  is  no  hope  of  freedom.  I  shall  fall  into 
darker  and  darker  depths  of  weakness  and  ruin,  always  con- 
scious of  what  I  am  losing.     What  will  be  the  end?" 

"  What  the  end  will  be,  under  the  present  circumstances, 
is  only  too  clear  to  me.     But  it  might  easily  be  averted  ?  " 


ART  AND  MISERY 


213 


•'  How  ?  Give  me  some  practical  advice,  Waymark  !  Let 
us  talk  of  the  matter  freely.     Tell  me  what  you  would  do  ! " 

Waymark  thought  for  a  moment. 

"Does  there  seem  any  chance  of  her  health  being  per- 
manently improved  ? "  he  asked. 

"  I  can't  say.  She  says  she  is  better.  It's  no  use  my 
asking  the  doctors ;  they  despise  me,  and  would  not  think 
of  treating  me  with  any  consideration." 

"  Why  don't  you  do  this  1 "  began  Waymark,  after  another 
pause.  "  Use  all  means  to  find  some  convalescent  home 
where  she  can  be  received  when  she  leaves  the  hospital. 
Then,  if  her  fits  and  the  rest  of  it  still  continue,  find  some 
permanent  place  for  her.  You  can  afford  it.  Never  mind 
if  it  reduces  you  for  a  time  to  a  garret  and  a  crust." 

"  She  would  refuse  to  go  to  such  places,"  said  Julian 
despondently. 

"  Then  refuse  to  take  her  back  !  Sell  your  furniture ; 
take  one  room  for  yourself ;  and  tell  her  she  must  live  where 
she  likes  on  a  sufficient  allowance  from  you." 

"I  dare  not.  It  is  impossible.  She  would  never  leave 
me  in  peace." 

"  You  will  have  to  do  this  ultimately,  if  you  are  to  con- 
tinue to  live.     Of  that  there  is  no  doubt.     So  why  not  now  ? " 

"  I  must  think ;  it  is  impossible  to  make  up  my  mind  to 
such  a  thing  at  once.  I  know  you  advise  what  is  best;  I 
have  thought  of  it  myself.  But  I  shaU  never  have  the 
courage  !  I  am  so  miserably  weak.  If  only  I  could  get  my 
health  back  !     Good  God,  how  I  suffer  !  " 

Waymark  did  his  best  to  familiarise  Julian  with  the 
thought,  and  to  foster  in  him  something  of  resoluteness,  but 
he  had  small  hope  of  succeeding.  The  poor  fellow  was  so 
incapable  of  anything  wliich  at  all  resembled  selfishness,  and 
so  dreaded  the  results  of  any  such  severity  on  his  part  as 
that  proposed.  There  were  moments  when  indignation 
almost  nerved  him  to  independence,  but  there  returned  so 
soon  the  sense  of  pity,  and,  oftener  still,  the  thought  of  that 
promise  made  to  Harriet's  father,  long  ago,  in  the  dark  little 
parlour  which  smelt  of  drugs.  The  poor  chemist,  whose 
own  life  was  full  of  misery,  had  been  everything  to  him ; 
but  for  Mr.  Smales,  he  might  now  have  been  an  ignorant, 
coarse-handed  working  man,  if  not  worse.  Was  Harriet 
past  all  rescue  ?  Was  there  ncit  even  yet  a  chance  of  saving 
her  from  herself  and  those  hateful  friends  of  hers  ? 


214  THE  UNCLASSED 

This  was  the  natural  reaction  after  listening  to  "Waymark's 
remorseless  counsel.  Going  home,  Julian  fought  once  more 
the  battle  with  himself,  till  the  usual  troubled  sleep  severed 
his  thoughts  into  fragments  of  horrible  dreams.  The  next 
day  he  felt  diirerently ;  Waymark's  advice  seemed  more 
practical.  In  the  afternoon  he  should  have  visited  Harriet 
in  the  ward,  but  an  insuperable  repulsion  kept  him  away, 
and  for  the  first  time.  It  was  a  bleak,  cheerless  day ;  the 
air  was  cold  with  the  breath  of  the  nearing  winter.  At 
night  he  found  it  impossible  to  sit  in  his  own  room,  and 
dreaded  to  talk  with  any  one.  His  thoughts  were  fixed 
upon  one  place ;  a  great  longing  drew  him  forth,  into  the 
darkness  and  the  rain  of  the  streets,  onwards  in  a  fixed 
direction.  It  brought  him  to  Westminster,  and  to  the  gate 
of  Tothill  Fields  Prison.  The  fetters  upon  the  great  doors 
were  hideous  in  the  light  of  the  lamps  above  them  ;  the  mean 
houses  around  the  gaol  seemed  to  be  rotting  in  its  accursed 
shadow.  A  deadly  stilhiess  possessed  the  air;  there  was 
blight  in  the  dropping  of  the  rain. 

He  leaned  against  the  great,  gloomy  wall,  and  thought  of 
Ida.  At  this  hour  she  was  most  likely  asleep,  unless  sorrow 
kept  her  waking.  What  unimagined  horrors  did  she  suffer 
day  after  day  in  that  accursed  prison-house  ]  How  did  she  bear 
her  torments?  Was  she  well  or  ill?  What  brutality  might 
she  not  be  subjected  to  ?  He  pictured  her  face  wasted  with 
secret  tears,  those  eyes  which  were  the  light  of  his  soul  fixed 
on  the  walls  of  the  ceU,  hour  after  hour,  in  changeless  despair, 
the  fire  of  passionate  resentment  feeding  at  her  life's  core. 

The  night  became  calmer.  The  rained  c!  ased,  and  a  sudden 
gleam  made  him  look  up,  to  behold  the  moon  breaking  her 
way  through  billows  of  darkness. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

STRAYING 

The  Enderbys  were  at  Brighton  during  the  autumn.  Mr. 
Enderby  only  remained  with  them  two  or  three  days  at  a 
time,  business  requiring  his  frequent  presence  in  town. 
Maud  would  have  been  glad  to  spend  her  holidays  at  some 
far  quieter  place,  but  her  mother  enjoyed  Brighton,  and 
threw  herself  into  its  amusements  of  the  place  with  spirits 


She  wyuld  sit  for  )iour.s  with  jid  companion  save  ner  thoughts.-  Page  ^/.5 


STRAYING  215 

which  seemed  to  grow  younger.  They  occupied  handsome 
rooms,  and  altogether  lived  in  a  more  expensive  way  than 
when  at  home. 

Maud  was  glad  to  see  her  mother  happy,  hut  could  not  be 
at  ease  herself  in  this  kind  of  life,  it  was  soon  arranged 
that  she  should  live  in  her  own  way,  withholding  from  the 
social  riot  which  she  dreaded,  and  seeking  rest  in  out-of-the 
way  parts  of  the  shore,  where  more  of  nature  was  to  be  found 
and  less  of  fashion.  Maud  feared  lest  her  mother  should 
feel  this  as  an  unkind  desertion,  but  Mrs.  Enderby  was  far 
from  any  such  trouble ;  it  relieved  her  from  the  occasional 
disadvantage  of  having  by  her  side  a  grown-up  daughter, 
whose  beauty  so  strongly  contrasted  with  her  own.  So 
Maud  spent  her  days  very  frequently  in  exploring  the  Downs, 
or  in  seeking  out  retired  nooks  beneath  the  clifls,  where 
there  was  no  sound  in  her  ears  but  that  of  the  waves.  She 
would  sit  for  hours  with  no  companion  save  her  thoughts, 
which  were  unconsciously  led  from  phase  to  phase  by  the 
moving  lights  and  shadows  upon  the  sea,  and  the  soft  beauty 
of  unstable  clouds. 

Even  before  leaving  London,  she  had  begun  to  experience 
a  frequent  sadness  of  mood,  tending  at  times  to  weariness 
and  depression,  which  foreshadowed  new  changes  in  her 
inner  life.  The  fresh  delight  in  nature  and  art  had  worn 
oil"  in  some  degree  ;  she  read  less,  and  her  thoughts  took  the 
habit  of  musing  upon  the  people  and  circumstances  about 
lier,  also  upon  the  secrets  of  the  years  to  come.  She  grew 
more  conscious  of  the  mystery  in  her  own  earlier  life,  and  in 
the  conditions  which  now  surrounded  her.  A  sense  which  at 
times  besets  all  imaginative  minds  came  upon  her  now  and 
tUen  with  painful  force  ;  a  fantastic  imreality  would  suddenly 
possess  all  she  saw  and  heard;  it  seemed  as  if  she  Lad  been 
of  a  sudden  transported  out  of  the  old  existence  into  this 
new  and  unrealised  po.^^ition ;  if  any  person  spoke  to  her,  it 
was  difficult  to  feel  that  she  was  really  addressed  and  must 
reply  ;  was  it  not  all  a  mere  vision  she  was  beholding,  out 
of  which  she  would  presently  awake  ?  Such  moments  were 
followed  by  dark  melancholy.  This  life  she  was  leading 
could  not  last,  but  would  pass  away  in  some  fearful  shock  of 
soul.  Once  she  half  l)elieved  herself  endowed  with  the 
curse  of  a  hideous  second-sight.  Sitting  with  her  father 
and  mother,  silence  all  at  once  fell  upon  the  room,  and 
everything  was  transfigured  in  a  ghostly  light.     Distinctly 


2i6  THE  UNCLASSED 

she  saw  her  mother  throw  her  head  back  and  raise  to  her 
throat  what  seemed  to  be  a  sharp,  glistening  piece  of  steel ; 
then  came  a  cry,  and  all  was  darkened  before  her  eyes  in  a 
rush  of  crimson  mist.  The  cry  she  had  herself  uttered, 
much  to  her  parents'  alarm  ;  wliat  her  mother  held  was  in 
reality  only  a  paper-knife,  with  which  she  had  been  tapping 
her  lips  in  thought,  A  slight  attack  of  illness  followed  on 
this  disturbance,  and  it  was  some  days  before  she  recovered 
from  the  shock  ;  she  kept  to  herself,  however,  the  horrible 
picture  which  her  imagination  had  conjured  up. 

She  began  to  pay  more  frequent  visits  to  her  aunt  Theresa, 
whom  at  first  she  had  seen  very  seldom.  There  was  not  the 
old  confidence  between  them.  Maud  shrank  from  any 
direct  reference  to  the  change  in  herself,  and  Miss  Bygrave 
spoke  no  word  which  could  suggest  a  comparison  between 
past  and  present.  Maud  tried  once  more  to  draw  near  to 
the  pale,  austere  woman,  whose  life  ever  remained  the  same. 
She  was  not  repelled,  but  neither  did  any  movement  respond 
to  her  yearning.     She  always  came  away  with  a  sad  heart. 

One  evening  in  the  week  she  looked  forward  to  with 
eagerness ;  it  was  that  on  which  Waymark  was  generally 
expected.  In  Waymark's  presence  she  could  forget  those 
dark  spirits  that  hovered  about  her ;  she  could  forget 
herself,  and  be  at  rest  in  the  contemplation  of  strength 
and  confidence.  There  was  a  ring  in  his  voice  which  in- 
spired faith  ;  whatever  might  be  his  own  doubts  and  diffi- 
culties— and  his  face  testified  to  his  knowledge  of  both — it 
was  so  certain  that  he  had  power  to  overcome  them.  This 
characteristic  grew  stronger  in  him  to  her  observation ;  he 
was  a  far  other  man  now  than  when  she  first  knew  him  ;  the 
darkness  had  passed  from  his  eyes,  which  seemed  always  to 
look  straight  forward,  and  with  perception  of  an  end  he  was 
Hearing.  Why  could  she  not  make  opportunities  of  speaking 
freely  with  him,  alone  with  him?  They  were  less  near  to 
each  other,  it  seemed,  after  a  year  of  constant  meeting,  than 
in  the  times  when,  personally  all  but  strangers,  they  had 
corresponded  so  frankly  and  unconventionally.  Of  course 
he  came  to  tlie  house  for  her  sake;  it  could  not  but  be  so; 
yet  at  times  he  seemed  to  pay  so  little  attention  to  her. 
Her  mother  often  monopolised  him  through  a  whole  evening, 
and  not  apparently  to  his  annoyance.  And  all  the  time  he 
had  in  his  heart  the  message  for  which  she  longed ;  support 
and  comfort  were  waiting  for  her  there,  she  felt  sure,  could 


STRAYING  217 

he  but  speak  unrestrainedly.  In  herself  was  no  salvation ; 
but  he  had  already  overcome,  and  why  could  she  not  ask 
him  for  the  secret  of  his  confidence  1  Often,  as  the  evening 
drew  to  an  end,  and  he  was  preparing  to  leave,  an  impatience 
scarcely  to  be  repressed  took  hold  upon  her ;  her  face  grew 
hot,  her  hands  trembled,  she  would  have  followed  him  from 
the  room  and  begged  for  one  word  to  herself  had  it  been 
possible.  And  when  he  was  gone,  there  came  the  weakest 
moments  her  life  had  yet  known ;  a  childish  petulance,  a 
tearful  fretting,  an  irritable  misery  of  which  she  was  ashamed. 
She  went  to  her  room  to  suffer  in  silence,  and  often  to  read 
through  that  packet  of  his  letters,  till  the  night  was  far  spent. 

It  had  cost  her  much  to  leave  London.  She  feared  lest, 
during  her  absence,  something  should  occur  to  break  off  the 
wonted  course  of  things,  and  that  Waymark  might  not  re- 
sume his  visits  on  their  return.  After  the  feverish  interval 
of  those  first  weeks,  she  tried  sometimes  to  distract  her 
thoughts  by  reading,  and  got  from  a  library  a  book  which 
Waymark  bad  recommended  to  her  at  their  last  meeting — 
Eossetti's  poems.  These  gave  her  much  help  in  restoring  her 
mind  to  quietness.  Their  j)erfect  beauty  entranced  her,  and 
the  rapturous  purity  of  ideal  passion,  the  mystic  delicacies  of 
emotion,  which  made  every  verse  gle.'im  like  a  star,  held  her 
for  the  time  high  above  that  gloomy  cloudland  of  her  being, 
rife  with  weird  shapes  and  mufiled  voices.  That  Beauty  is 
solace  of  life,  and  Love  the  end  of  being, — this  faith  she  would 
cling  to  in  spite  of  all ;  she  grasped  it  with  the  desperate  force 
of  one  who  dreaded  lest  it  should  fade  and  fail  from  her. 
Beauty  alone  would  not  suffice ;  too  often  it  was  perceived  as 
a  mere  mask,  veiling  horrors;  but  in  the  passion  and  the 
worship  of  love  was  surely  a  never-failing  fountain  of  growth 
and  power ;  this  the  draught  that  would  leave  no  bitter  after- 
taste, its  enjoyment  the  final  and  all-sufficient  answer  to  the 
riddle  of  life.  Rossetti  put  into  utterance  for  her  so  much 
that  she  had  not  dared  to  entrust  even  to  the  voice  of  thought. 
Her  spirit  and  flesh  became  one  and  indivisible ;  the  old  an- 
tagonism seemed  at  an  end  for  ever. 

Such  dreamings  as  these  naturally  heightened  Maud's 
dislike  for  the  kind  of  life  her  mother  led,  and  she  longed 
unspeakably  for  the  time  of  her  return  to  London.  They  had 
been  at  Brighton  already  nearly  a  month,  when  a  new  cir- 
cumstance was  added  to  her  discomfort.  As  she  walked  with 
her  mother  one  day,  they  met  their  acquaintance,  Mr.  Budge. 


2l8  THE  UNCLASSED 

This  gentleman  dined  with  them  that  evening  at  Mrs.  En- 
derby's  invitation,  and  persuaded  the  latter  to  join  a  party 
he  had  made  up  for  an  excursion  on  the  following  day. 
Maud  excused  herself.  She  did  not  like  Mr.  Budge,  and  hia 
demeanour  during  the  evening  only  strengthened  her  preju- 
dice. He  was  unduly  excited  and  fervent,  and  allowed  him- 
self a  certain  freedom  in  his  conversation  with  Mrs.  Enderby 
which  Maud  resented  strongly. 

Wlien  they  were  once  more  in  London,  Maud  did  not  win 
back  tlie  furmer  quiet  of  mind.  Waymark  came  again  as 
usual,  but  if  anything  the  distance  between  him  and  herself 
seemed  more  hopeless.  He  appeared  preoccupied ;  his  talk, 
when  he  spoke  with  her,  was  of  a  more  general  kind  than 
formerly ;  she  was  conscious  that  her  presence  did  not  affect 
him  as  it  had  done.  She  sank  again  into  despondency ; 
books  were  insipid,  and  society  irritated  her.  She  began 
the  habit  of  taking  long  walks,  an  aimless  wandering  about 
the  streets  and  parks  within  her  reach.  One  evening,  wend- 
ing wearily  homewards,  she  was  attracted  by  the  lights  in  a 
church  in  Marylebone  Road,  and,  partly  for  a  few  minutes' 
rest,  partly  out  of  a  sudden  attraction  to  a  religious  service, 
she  entered.  It  was  the  church  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Rosary. 
She  had  not  noticed  that  it  was  a  Roman  Catholic  place  of 
worship,  but  the  discovery  gave  her  an  unexpected  pleasure. 
She  was  soothed  and  filled  with  a  sense  of  repose.  Sinking 
into  the  attitude  of  prayer,  she  let  her  thoughts  carry  her 
whither  they  would ;  they  showed  her  nothing  but  images 
of  beauty  and  peace.  It  was  with  reluctance  that  she  arose 
and  went  back  into  the  dark  street,  where  the  world  met  her 
with  a  chill  blast,  sleet-laden. 

Our  Lady  of  the  Rosary  received  her  frequently  after  this. 
But  there  were  days  when  the  thought  of  repose  was  far 
from  her.  At  one  such  time,  on  an  evening  in  November,  a 
sudden  desire  possessed  her  mind  ;  she  would  go  out  into  the 
streets  of  the  town  and  see  something  of  that  life  which  she 
knew  only  in  imagination,  the  traffic  of  highway  and  byway 
after  dark,  the  masque  of  pleasure  and  misery  of  sin  of 
which  a  young  girl  can  know  nothing,  save  from  hints  here 
and  there  in  her  reading,  or  from  the  occasional  whispers 
and  head-shakings  of  society's  gossip.  Her  freedom  was 
complete ;  her  absence,  if  noticed,  woidd  entail  no  ques- 
tions ;  her  mother  doubtless  would  conclude  that  she  was  at 
her  aunt  Theresa'a     So  she  clad  herself  in  walking  attire  of 


STRAYING  219 

a  kind  not  likely  to  attract  observation,  and  set  forth.  The 
tumult  which  had  been  in  her  blood  all  day  received  fresh 
impulse  from  the  excitement  of  the  adventure.  She  had 
veiled  her  face,  but  the  veil  hindered  her  observation,  and 
she  threw  it  back.  First  into  Edgware  Road,  then  down 
Oxford  Street.  Her  thoughts  pointed  to  an  eastern  district, 
though  she  feared  the  distance  would  be  too  great ;  she  had 
frequently  talked  with  Waymark  of  his  work  in  Litany 
Lane  and  Elm  Court,  and  a  great  curiosity  possessed  her  to 
see  these  places.  She  entered  an  omnibus,  and  so  reached 
the  remote  neighbourhood.  Here,  by  inquiry  of  likely 
people,  she  found  her  way  to  Litany  Lane,  and  would  have 
penetrated  its  darkness,  but  was  arrested  by  a  sudden  event 
characteristic  of  the  locality. 

Forth  from  the  alley,  just  before  her,  rushed  a  woman  of 
hideous  aspect,  pursued  by  another,  younger,  but,  if  possible, 
yet  more  foul,  who  shrieked  curses  and  threats.  In  the  way 
of  the  fugitive  was  a  costermonger's  stall ;  unable  to  check 
herself,  the  woman  rushed  against  this,  overturning  it,  and 
herself  falling  among  the  ruin.  The  one  in  pursuit,  with  a 
yell  of  triumph,  sprang  upon  her  prostrate  enemy,  and  attacked 
her  with  fearful  violence,  leaping  on  her  body,  dashing  her 
head  against  the  pavement,  seemingly  bent  on  murder.  In 
a  moment  there  was  a  thick  crowd  rushing  round,  amid  which 
Maud  was  crushed  and  swayed  without  possibility  of  disen- 
gaging herself.  The  screams  of  the  one  woman,  and  the 
terrific  objurgations  of  the  other,  echoed  through  the  street. 
From  the  words  of  those  about  her,  Maud  understood  that 
the  two  women  were  mother  and  daughter,  and  that  it  was 
no  rare  occurrence  for  the  younger  woman  to  fall  just  short 
of  killing  her  parent.  But  only  for  a  moment  or  two  could 
Maud  understand  anything ;  horror  and  physical  oppression 
overcame  her  senses.  Her  fainting  caused  a  diversion  in 
the  crowd,  and  she  was  dragged  without  much  delay  to  the 
nearest  doorstep. 

She  was  not  long  unconscious,  and  presently  so  far 
recovered  as  to  know  that  she  was  being  helped  to  enter  a 
cab.  The  cab  began  to  drive  off.  Then  she  saw  that  some 
one  was  sitting  opposite  her.  "Who  is  iti"  she  asked, 
trying  to  command  herself,  and  to  see  clearly  by  the  light 
of  the  street  lamps.  At  the  sound  of  the  voice  which 
answered,  she  started,  and,  looking  again,  at  length  recog- 
nised Waymark. 


220  THE  UNCLASSED 

**  Do  you  feel  better  ? "  he  asked.  "  Are  you  able  to  go 
on  homewards  ? " 

"Quite  able,"  she  answered,  leaning  back  again,  and 
speaking  with  strange  calmness. 

"  What  on  earth  is  the  meaning  of  this  1 "  was  Waymark's 
next  inquiry.     "  How  came  you  here  at  this  time  t " 

"  Curiosity  brought  me,"  Maud  answered,  with  the  same 
xinnatural  composure. 

*'  Had  you  been  there  long?" 

"No;  I  had  asked  my  way  to  Litany  Lane,  and  all  at 
once  found  myself  in  the  crowd." 

"  Thank  goodness  I  happened  to  be  by !  I  had  just  been 
looking  up  a  defaulting  tenant.  I  couldn't  believe  my  eyes 
when  I  saw  you  lying  in  that  doorway.  Why  didn't  you  ask 
me  to  come  with  you,  and  show  you  these  places  ? " 

"  It  would  have  been  better,"  she  said,  with  her  eyes  closed. 

Waymark  leaned  back.  Conversation  was  difficult  in  the 
noise  of  the  vehicle,  and  for  a  long  time  neither  spoke, 

"  I  told  the  man  to  drive  to  Edgware  Road,"  Waymark 
said  then.     "  Shall  he  go  on  to  the  house  ? " 

"  No ;  I  had  rather  walk  the  last  part." 

They  talked  brokenly  of  the  Lane  and  its  inhabitants. 
When  at  length  Maud  alighted  Waymark  offered  his  arm, 
and  she  just  laid  her  hand  upon  it. 

"I  have  seen  dreadful  things  to-night,"  she  said,  in  a 
voice  that  still  trembled ;  "  seen  and  heard  things  that  will 
haunt  me." 

"You  give  too  much  weight  to  the  impressions  of  the 
moment.  That  world  is  farther  removed  from  yours  than 
the  farthest  star ;  you  must  forget  this  glimpse  of  it." 

"  Oh,  I  fear  you  do  not  know  me  ;  I  do  not  know  myself." 

He  made  no  reply,  and,  on  their  coming  near  to  the  house, 
Maud  paused. 

"  Mother's  sending  you  a  note  this  evening,"  she  said,  as  she 
held  out  her  hand,  "  to  ask  you  to  come  on  Thursday  instead 
of  to-morrow.     She  will  be  from  home  to-morrow  night. " 

"  Shall  you  also  be  from  home  ? " 

"I?     No." 

"  Then  may  I  not  come  and  see  you  ? — Not  if  it  would  be 
troublesome." 

"  It  would  not,  at  all." 

"  It  is  good  of  you.     I  will  come.*' 


THE  WILL  TO  LIVE  asi 

CHAPTEK    XXVII 

THE   AVILL   TO   LIVE 

"Waymark  made  his  way  to  Paddington  at  the  usual  time 
on  the  following  evening,  and  found  Maud  alone.  There 
Avas  agitation  in  her  manner  as  she  welcomed  him,  and  she 
resumed  her  seat  as  if  the  attitude  of  rest  was  needful  to 
her.  In  reply  to  his  inquiries  about  her  health,  she  assured 
him  she  was  well,  and  that  she  felt  no  painful  results  from 
the  previous  evening.  Waymark  also  showed  an  unusual 
embarrassment.  He  stood  for  some  moments  by  the  table, 
turning  over  the  leaves  of  a  book. 

"  I  didn't  know  you  had  Rossetti,"  he  said,  without  look- 
ing up.     "You  never  mentioned  him." 

"  I  seem  to  have  had  no  opportunity." 

"No.  I  too  have  many  things  that  I  have  wanted  to 
speak  to  you  about,  but  opportunity  was  wanting.  I  have 
sometimes  been  on  the  point  of  asking  you  to  let  me  write 
to  you  again." 

He  glanced  inquiringly  at  her.  Her  eyes  fell,  and  she 
tried  to  speak,  but  failed.  Waymark  went  to  a  seat  at  a 
little  distance  from  her. 

"You  do  not  look  as  well  as  when  I  met  you  in  the 
summer,"  he  said.  "  I  have  feared  you  might  be  studying 
too  hard.  I  hope  you  threw  away  your  books  whilst  you 
were  at  the  sea-side." 

•'  I  did,  but  it  was  because  I  found  little  pleasure  in  them. 
It  was  not  rest  that  took  the  place  of  reading." 

"Are  your  difficulties  of  a  kind  you  could  speak  of  to 
me?"  he  asked,  ■with  some  hesitation. 

She  kept  her  eyes  lowered,  and  her  fingers  writhed  ner- 
vously on  the  arm  of  the  chair. 

"  My  only  fear  would  be  lest  you  should  think  my  troubles 
unreal.  Indeed  it  is  so  hard  to  make  them  appear  anything 
more  than  morbid  fancies.  They  are  traceable,  no  doubt, 
to  my  earliest  years.  To  explain  them  fully,  I  should  have 
to  tell  you  circumstances  of  my  life  which  could  have  little 
interest  for  you." 

"Tell  me — do,"  Waymark  replied  earnestly. 

"  Will  you  let  me  t "  she  said,  with  a  timid  pleasure  in 
her  voice.     "  I  believe  you  could  understand  me.     I  have  a 


222  THE  UNCLASSED 

feeling  that  you  must  have  experienced  something  of  these 
troubles  yourself,  and  have  overcome  them.  Perhaps  you 
could  help  me  to  understand  myself." 

**  If  I  thought  I  could,  it  would  give  me  great  happiness." 
She  was  silent  a  little,  then,  with  diffidence  which  lessened 
as  she  went  on,  she  related  the  history,  as  far  as  she  knew 
it,  of  her  childhood,  and  described  the  growth  of  her  mind 
up  to  the  time  when  she  had  left  home  to  begin  life  as  a 
governess.  It  was  all  very  simply,  but  very  vividly,  told ; 
that  natural  command  of  impressive  language  which  had  so 
struck  Waymark  in  her  letters  displayed  itself  as  soon  as 
she  had  gained  confidence.  Glimpses  of  her  experience 
"Waymark  had  already  had,  but  now  for  the  first  time  he 
understood  the  full  significance  of  her  early  years.  Whilst 
she  spoke,  he  did  not  move  his  eyes  from  her  face.  He  was 
putting  himself  in  her  position,  and  imagining  himself  to  be 
telling  his  own  story  in  the  same  way.  His  relation,  he 
knew,  would  have  been  a  piece  of  more  or  less  clever  acting, 
howsoever  true ;  he  would  have  been  considering,  all  the 
time,  the  efiiect  of  what  he  said,  and,  indeed,  could  not,  on 
this  account,  have  allowed  himself  to  be  quite  truthful. 
How  far  was  this  the  case  with  Maud  Enderby  ?  Could  he 
have  surprised  the  faintest  touch  of  insincerity  in  look  or 
accent,  it  would  have  made  a  world's  difference  in  his  position 
towards  her.  His  instinct  was  unfailing  in  the  detection  of 
the  note  of  affected  feeling ;  so  much  the  stronger  the 
impression  produced  upon  him  by  a  soul  unveiling  itself  in 
the  naivete  of  genuine  emotion.  That  all  was  sincere  he 
could  have  no  doubt.  Gradually  he  lost  his  critical  attitude, 
and  at  moments  surprised  himself  under  the  influence  of  a 
sympathetic  instinct.  Then  he  would  lose  consciousness  of 
her  words  for  an  interval,  during  which  he  pondered  her 
face,  and  was  wrought  upon  by  its  strange  beauty.  The 
pure  and  touching  spirituality  of  Maud's  countenance  had 
never  been  so  present  to  him  as  now ;  she  was  pale  with 
very  earnestness,  her  eyes  seemed  larger  than  their  wont, 
there  was  more  than  womanly  sweetness  in  the  voice  which 
so  unconsciously  modulated  itself  to  the  perfect  expression 
of  all  she  uttered.  Towards  the  end,  he  could  but  yield 
himself  completely  to  the  spell,  and,  when  she  ceased,  he, 
like  Adam  at  the  end  of  the  angel's  speech,  did  not  at  once 
perceive  that  her  voice  was  silent. 

"  It  was  long,"  she  said,  after  telling  the  outward  circiun- 


THE  WILL  TO  LIVE  223 

stances  of  her  life  with  her  aunt,  "  before  I  came  to  under- 
stand how  differently  I  had  been  brought  up  from  other 
children.  Partly  I  began  to  see  it  at  the  school  where  we 
first  met;  but  it  only  grew  quite  clear  to  me  when  I  shared 
in  the  home  life  of  my  pupils  in  the  country.  I  found  1 
had  an  entirely  different  view  of  the  world  from  what  was 
usual  That  which  was  my  evil,  I  discovered  to  be  often 
others'  good ;  and  my  good,  their  abhorrence.  My  aunt's 
system  was  held  to  be  utterly  unchristian.  Little  things 
which  I  sometimes  said,  in  perfect  innocence,  excited  grave 
disapproval.  All  this  frightened  me,  and  made  me  even 
more  reserved  than  I  should  have  been  naturally. 

"In  my  letters  to  you  I  began  to  venture  for  the  first 
time  to  speak  of  things  which  were  making  my  life  restless. 
I  did  little  more  than  hint  my  opinions ;  I  wonder,  in  look- 
ing back,  that  1  had  the  courage  to  do  even  that.  But  I 
already  knew  that  your  mind  was  broader  and  richer  than 
mine,  and  I  suppose  I  caught  with  a  certain  desperation  at 
the  chance  of  being  understood.  It  was  the  first  opportunity 
I  had  ever  had  of  discussing  intellectual  things.  With  my 
aunt  I  had  never  ventured  to  discuss  anything ;  I  reverenced 
her  too  much  for  that ;  she  spoke,  and  I  received  all  she 
said.  I  thought  that  from  you  I  should  obtain  confirmation 
where  I  needed  it,  but  your  influence  was  of  the  opposite 
kind.  Your  letters  so  abounded  with  suggestion  that  was 
quite  new  to  me,  referred  so  familiarly  to  beliefs  and 
interests  of  which  I  was  quite  ignorant,  showed  such  a  bold- 
ness in  judging  all  things,  that  1  drifted  further  and  further 
from  certainty.     The  result  of  it  all  was  that  I  fell  ill. 

"  You  see  now  what  it  is  that  has  burdened  me  from  the 
day  when  I  first  began  to  ask  myself  about  my  beliefs.  I 
was  taught  to  believe  that  the  world  was  sin,  and  that  the 
soul  only  freed  itself  from  sin  in  proportion  as  it  learned  to 
live  apart  from  and  independently  of  the  world.  Everything 
was  dark  because  of  sin ;  only  in  the  still,  secret  places  of 
the  soul  was  the  liglit  of  purity  and  salvation. 

"  I  thought  I  had  passed  out  of  this.  When  I  returned 
to  London,  and  began  this  new  life,  the  burden  seemed  all 
at  once  lifted  from  me.  I  could  look  here  and  there  with 
freedom  ;  the  sky  was  bright  above  me  ;  human  existence  was 
cheerful  and  noble  and  justified  in  itself.  I  began  to  learn  a 
thousand  tilings.  Above  all,  my  mind  fixed  on  Art;  in  that 
1  thought  I  had  found  a  support  that  would  never  fail  me. 


a34  THE  UNCLASSED 

"  Oh,  why  could  it  not  last  ?  The  clouds  began  to  darken 
over  me  again.  I  heard  voices  once  which  I  had  hoped  were 
for  ever  silenced.  That  sense  of  sin  and  horror  came  upon 
me  last  night  in  the  streets.     I  suffered  dreadfully." 

She  was  silent,  and,  meeting  Waymark's  eyes  so  fixed  on 
her  own,  became  conscious  of  the  eagerness  and  fervour  with 
which  she  had  spoken. 

"  Have  you  any  experience  of  such  things  1 "  she  asked 
nervously.     "  Did  you  ever  suffer  in  the  same  way  ? " 

"  It  is  all  very  strange,"  he  said,  without  answering  her 
question.  "  This  overpowering  consciousness  of  sin  is  an 
anachronism  in  our  time.  But,  from  the  way  in  which  you 
express  yourself,  I  should  have  thought  you  had  been  study- 
ing Schopenhauer.     I  suppose  you  know  nothing  of  him  t " 

"  Nothing." 

"Some  of  your  phrases  were  precisely  his.  Your  doc- 
trine is  simply  Pessimism,  with  an  element  of  dogmatic  faith 
added.  With  Schopenhauer,  the  will  to  live  is  the  root  of 
sin  ;  mortify  this,  deny  the  first  instincts  of  your  being,  and 
you  approach  righteousness.  Buddhism  has  the  same  system. 
And,  in  deducing  all  this  from  the  plain  teachings  of  Chris- 
tianity, I  am  disposed  to  think  you  are  right  and  consistent. 
Christianity  is  pessimism,  so  far  as  this  world  is  concerned ; 
we  see  that  in  such  things  as  the  thanksgiving  for  a  person's 
death  in  the  burial  service,  and  the  prayer  that  the  end  of 
the  world  may  soon  come." 

He  paused,  and  thought  for  a  moment. 

"  But  all  this,"  he  resumed,  rising  from  his  seat,  and  going 
to  stand  with  one  arm  upon  the  mantelpiece,  *'  is  of  course, 
with  me,  mere  matter  of  speculation.  There  are  two  alle- 
gories, which  define  I'essimism  and  Optimism.  First  that 
of  Adam  and  Christ.  Adam  falls  through  eating  of  the  tree 
of  knowledge ;  in  other  words,  sin  only  comes  with  self- 
consciousness,  sin  is  the  conscious  enjoyment  of  life.  And, 
according  to  this  creed,  it  can  only  be  overcome  by  abnega- 
tion, by  the  denial  of  the  will  to  live.  Accordingly,  Christ 
enters  the  world,  and,  representing  Humanity,  as  Adam  had 
done,  saves  the  world  by  denial,  of  Himself,  even  to  death. 
The  other  allegory  is  that  of  Prometheus.  He  also  represents 
mankind,  and  his  stealing  of  the  fire  means  man'.s  acquirement 
of  a  conscious  soul,  whereby  he  makes  himself  capable  of  sin. 
The  gods  put  him  in  bondage  and  torment,  representing  the 
subjection  to  the  flesh.    But  Prometheus  is  saved  in  a  different 


THE  WILL  TO  LIVE  225 

way  from  Adam;  not  by  renunciation,  but  by  the  prowess 
of  Hercules,  that  is  to  say,  the  triumphant  aspiration  of 
Humanity.  Man  triumphs  by  asserting  his  right  to  do  so. 
Self-consciousness  he  claims  as  a  good  thing,  and  embraces 
the  world  as  his  birthright.  Here,  you  see,  there  is  no  room 
for  the  crushing  sense  of  sin.  Sin,  if  anything,  is  weakness. 
Let  us  rejoice  in  our  strength,  whilst  we  have  it.  The  end 
of  course  will  come,  but  it  is  a  wise  man's  part  not  to  heed 
the  inevitable.  Let  us  live  whilst  it  is  called  to-day ;  we 
shall  go  to  sleep  with  aU  the  better  conscience  for  having 
used  the  hours  of  daylight." 

Maud  listened  with  head  bent. 

"My  own  temperament,"  Waymark  went  on,  "is,  I 
suppose,  exceptional,  at  all  events  among  men  who  have  an 
inner  life.  I  never  knew  what  goes  by  the  name  of  religious 
feeling;  impulses  of  devotion,  in  the  common  sense  of  the 
phrase,  have  always  been  strange  to  me.  I  have  known  fear 
at  the  prospect  of  death ;  rehgious  consolation,  never.  Sin, 
above  aU,  has  been  a  word  without  significance  to  me.  As 
a  boy,  it  was  so ;  it  is  so  still,  now  that  I  am  self-conscious. 
I  have  never  been  a  deep  student  of  philosophy,  but  the 
doctrine  of  philosophical  necessity,  the  idea  of  Fate,  is  with 
me  an  instinct.  I  know  that  I  could  not  have  acted  other- 
wise than  I  did  in  any  juncture  of  my  life ;  I  know  that  the 
future  is  beyond  my  control  I  shall  do  this,  and  avoid 
that,  simply  owing  to  a  preponderance  of  motives,  which  I 
can  gauge,  but  not  control.  Certain  things  I  hate  and  shrink 
from;  but  I  try  to  avoid,  even  in  thought,  such  words  as 
vice  and  crime;  the  murderer  could  not  help  himself,  and 
the  saint  has  no  merit  in  his  sanctity.  Does  all  this  seem 
horrible  to  you  ? " 

Maud  raised  her  eyes,  and  looked  steadily  at  him,  but  did 
not  speak.  It  was  the  gaze  of  one  who  tries  humbly  to 
understand,  and  longs  to  sympathise.  But  there  was  a 
shadow  of  something  like  fear  upon  her  face. 

Waymark  spoke  with  more  earnestness. 

"You  wiU  not  think  me  incapable  of  what  we  call  noble 
thought  and  feeling  t  I  have  in  me  the  elements  of  an  enthu- 
siast ;  they  miglit  liave  led  me  to  strange  developments,  but 
for  that  cold,  critical  spirit  which  makes  me  so  intensely  self- 
conscious.  This  restless  scepticism  has  often  been  to  me  a 
torment  in  something  the  same  way  as  that  burden  of  which 
you  speak.     Often,  often,  I  would  so  gladly  surrender  myself 

p 


226  THE  UNCLASSED 

to  my  instincts  of  passion  and  delight.  I  may  change ;  I 
may  perhaps  some  day  attain  rest  in  an  absolute  ideal.  If  I 
do,  it  will  be  through  the  help  of  one  who  shall  become  to 
me  that  ideal  personified,  who  shall  embody  all  the  purer 
elements  of  my  nature,  and  speak  to  me  as  with  the  voice  of 
my  own  soul." 

She  hung  upon  his  words,  and  an  involuntary  sigh,  born 
of  the  intensity  of  the  moment,  trembled  on  her  lips. 

"  I  have  spoken  to  you,"  he  said,  after  what  seemed  a  long 
silence,  "  with  a  sincerity  which  was  the  due  return  for  your 
own.  I  could  have  shown  myself  in  a  more  pleasing  light. 
You  see  how  little  able  I  am  to  help  you ;  the  centre -thought 
of  your  being  is  wholly  strange  to  me.  And  for  all  that — 
may  I  speak  my  thought  ? — we  are  nearer  to  each  other  than 
before." 

*'  Yes,  nearer,"  she  repeated,  under  her  breath. 

"  You  think  that  1  You  feel  that  ?  I  have  not  repelled 
youl" 

"  You  have  not." 

'•And  if  I  stood  before  you,  now,  as  you  know  me — 
egotistic,  sceptical,  calm — and  told  you  that  you  are  the  only 
being  in  whom  I  have  ever  felt  complete  confidence,  whose 
word  and  thought  I  felt  to  be  one ;  that  you  exercise  more 
power  over  me  than  any  other  ever  did  or  shall ;  that  life  in 
your  companionship  might  gain  the  unity  I  long  for  ;  that 
in  your  presence  I  feel  myself  face  to  face  with  a  higher  and 
nobler  nature  than  my  own,  one  capable  of  sustaining  me  in 
effort  and  leading  me  to  great  results  " 

He  became  silent,  for  her  face  had  turned  deadly  pale. 
But  this  passed,  and  in  her  eyes,  as  they  met  his,  trouble  grew 
to  a  calm  joy.     "Without  speaking,  she  held  her  hand  to  him. 

"  You  are  not  afraid,"  Waymark  said,  "  to  link  your  fate 
with  mine  ?  My  life  is  made  up  of  uncertainties.  I  have 
no  position ;  it  may  be  a  long  time  before  I  can  see  even  the 
promise  of  success  in  my  work.  I  have  chosen  that  work, 
however,  and  by  it  I  stand  or  fall.  Have  you  sufficient  faith 
in  me  to  wait  with  confidence  1 " 

"  I  have  absolute  faith  in  you.  I  ask  no  greater  happi- 
ness than  to  have  a  share  in  your  aims.  It  will  give  me  the 
strength  I  need,  and  make  my  life  full  of  hope." 

It  had  come  then,  and  just  as  he  had  foreseen  it  would. 
It  was  no  result  of  deliberate  decision,  he  had  given  up  the 
effort  to  discover  his  true  path,  knowing  sufficiently  that 


THE  WILL  TO  LIVE  227 

neither  reason  nor  true  preponderance  of  inclination  was 
likely  to  turn  the  balance.  The  gathering  emotion  of  the 
hour  had  united  with  opportunity  to  decide  his  future.  The 
decision  was  a  relief ;  as  he  walked  homewards,  he  was  light- 
hearted. 

On  the  way,  he  thought  over  everything  once  more,  re- 
viewing former  doubts  from  his  present  position.  On  the 
whole,  he  felt  that  fate  had  worked  for  his  happiness. 

And  yet  there  was  discontent.  He  had  never  known,  felt 
that  perhaps  he  might  never  know,  that  sustained  energy  of 
imaginative  and  sensual  longing  which  ideal  passion  demands. 
The  respectable  make-believe  which  takes  the  form  of  domes- 
tic sentiment,  that  every-day  love,  which,  become  the  servant 
of  habit,  suffices  to  cement  the  ordinary  household,  is  not  the 
state  in  which  such  men  as  Waymark  seek  or  find  repose ; 
the  very  possibility  of  falling  into  it  unawares  is  a  dread  to 
them.  If  he  could  but  feel  at  all  times  as  he  had  felt  at 
moments  in  Maud's  presence.  It  might  be  that  the  growth 
of  intimacy,  of  mutual  knowledge,  would  make  his  love  for 
her  a  more  real  motive  in  his  life.  He  would  endeavour  that 
it  should  be  so.  Yet  there  remained  that  fatal  conviction  of 
the  unreality  of  every  self-persuasion  save  in  relation  to  the 
influences  of  the  moment.  To  love  was  easy,  inevitable  ;  to 
concentrate  love  finally  on  one  object  might  well  prove,  in 
his  case,  an  impossibility.  Clear  enough  to  him  already  was 
the  likelihood  of  a  strong  revulsion  of  feeling  when  Ida  once 
more  came  back,  and  the  old  life — it  it  could  be — was  re- 
sumed. Compassion  would  speak  so  loudly  for  her ;  her  face, 
pale  and  illuminated  with  sorrow,  would  throw  a  stronger 
spell  than  ever  upon  his  senses.  Well,  there  was  no  help. 
Whatever  would  be,  would  be.  It  availed  nothing  to  foresee 
and  scheme  and  resolve. 

And,  in  the  same  hour,  Maud  was  upon  her  knees,  in  tLe 
silence  of  her  own  chamber,  shedding  tears  which  were  at 
once  both  sweet  and  bitter,  in  her  heart  a  tumult  of  emotion, 
joy  and  thanksgiving  at  strife  with  those  dark  powers  which 
shadowed  her  existence.  She  had  do  doubts  of  the  complete- 
ness and  persistency  of  her  love.  But  was  not  this  love  a 
sin,  and  its  very  strength  the  testimony  of  her  soul's  loss  ? 


sa8  THE  UNCLASSED 

CHAPTEK  XXVin 

slimy's  day 

"Watmark  had  •written  to  Ida  just  after  her  imprisonment 
began,  a  few  words  of  such  comfort  as  he  could  send.  No 
answer  came ;  perhaps  the  prison  rules  prevented  it.  When 
the  term  was  drawing  to  a  close,  he  wrote  again,  to  let  her 
know  that  he  would  meet  her  on  the  morning  of  her  release. 

It  would  be  on  a  Tuesday  morning.  As  the  time  drew 
near,  Waymark  did  his  best  to  think  of  the  matter  quietly. 
The  girl  had  no  one  else  to  help  her ;  it  would  have  been 
brutality  to  withdraw  and  leave  her  to  her  fate,  merely 
because  he  just  a  little  feared  the  effect  upon  himself  of 
such  a  meeting.  And  the  feeling  on  her  side  ?  Well,  that 
he  could  not  pretend  to  be  ignorant  of,  and,  in  spite  of 
everything,  there  was  still  the  same  half-acknowledged 
pleasure  in  the  thought.  He  tried  to  persuade  himself 
that  he  should  have  the  moral  courage  to  let  her  as  soon 
as  possible  understand  his  new  position ;  he  also  tried  to 
believe  that  this  would  not  involve  any  serious  shock  to 
Ida.  For  aU  that,  he  knew  only  too  well  that  man  is  *'  ein 
erhdrndicher  Schuft,"  and  there  was  always  the  possibility 
that  he  might  say  nothing  of  what  had  happened,  and  let 
things  take  their  course. 

On  the  Monday  he  was  already  looking  forward  to  the 
meeting  with  restlessness.  Could  he  have  foreseen  that 
anything  would  occur  to  prevent  his  keeping  his  promise, 
it  would  have  caused  him  extreme  anxiety.  But  such  a 
possibility  never  entered  his  thoughts,  and,  shortly  before 
mid-day,  he  went  down  to  collect  his  rents  as  usual. 

The  effect  of  a  hard  winter  was  seen  in  the  decrease  of 
the  collector's  weekly  receipts.  The  misery  of  cold  and 
starvation  was  growing  familiar  to  Waymark's  eyes,  and 
scarcely  excited  the  same  feeKngs  as  formerly;  yet  there 
were  some  cases  in  which  he  had  not  the  heart  to  press  for 
the  payment  of  rent,  and  his  representations  to  Mr.  Wood- 
stock on  behalf  of  the  poor  creatures  were  more  frequently 
successful  than  in  former  times.  Still,  in  the  absence  of 
ideal  philanthropy,  there  was  nothing  for  it  every  now  and 
then  but  eviction,  and  Waymark  more  than  once  knew  what 
it  was  to  be  cursed  to  his  face  by  suffering  wretches  whom 


SLIMY'S  DAY  229 

despair  made  incapable  of  discrimination.  "  Where  are  we 
to  go?"  was  the  oft-repeated  question,  and  the  only  reply 
was  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders ;  impossible  to  express  oneself 
otherwise.  They  clung  desperately  to  habitations  so  vile 
that  brutes  would  have  forsaken  them  for  cleaner  and  warmer 
retreats  in  archway  and  by  roadside.  One  family  of  seven, 
a  man  and  wife  (both  ill)  with  five  children,  could  not  be 
got  out,  even  when  a  man  had  been  sent  by  Mr.  Woodstock 
to  remove  the  window-frames  and  take  the  door  away,  furni- 
ture having  already  been  seized ;  only  by  force  at  length  were 
they  thrown  into  the  street,  to  find  their  way  to  perdition 
as  best  they  might.  Waymark  did  not  relish  all  this ;  it  cost 
him  a  dark  hour  now  and  then.  But  it  was  rich  material ; 
every  item  was  stored  up  for  future  use. 

Among  others,  the  man  named  Slimy  just  managed  to 
hold  his  footing.  Times  were  hard  with  SUmy,  that  was 
clear ;  still,  he  somehow  contrived  to  keep  no  more  than  a 
fortnight  behind  with  his  rent.  Waymark  was  studying 
this  creature,  and  found  in  him  the  strangest  matter  for 
observation ;  in  Slimy  there  were  depths  beyond  Caliban, 
and,  at  the  same  time,  curious  points  of  contact  with  average 
humanity,  unexpectedly  occurring.  He  was  not  ungrateful 
for  the  collector's  frequent  forbearance,  and,  when  able  to 
speak  coherently,  tried  at  times  to  show  this.  Waymark 
had  got  into  the  habit  of  sitting  with  him  in  his  room  for  a 
little  time,  whenever  he  found  him  at  home.  Of  late,  Slimy 
had  seemed  not  quite  in  his  usual  health;  this  exhibited 
itself  much  as  it  would  in  some  repulsive  animal,  which 
suffers  in  captivity,  and  tries  to  find  a  remote  corner  when 
pains  come  on.  At  times  Waymark  experienced  a  certain 
fear  in  the  man's  presence ;  if  ever  he  met  the  dull  glare  of 
that  one  bleared  blood-shot  eye,  a  chill  ran  through  him  for 
a  moment,  and  he  drew  back  a  little.  Personal  uncleanli- 
ness  made  Slimy's  proximity  at  all  times  unpleasant;  and 
occasionally  his  gaunt,  grimed  face  grew  to  an  expression 
suggestive  of  disagreeable  possibilities. 

On  the  present  day,  Waymark  was  told  by  a  woman  who 
lived  on  the  ground-floor  that  Slimy  had  gone  out,  but  had 
left  word  with  her,  in  case  the  collector  called,  that  he  should 
be  back  in  less  than  half-an-hour.  Doubtless  this  meant  that 
the  rent  was  not  forthcoming.  The  people  who  lived  on  the 
first  floor  were  out  as  usual,  but  had  left  their  rent.  Of  the 
two  rooms  at  the  top,  one  was  just  now  vacant.     Waymark 


23©  THE  UNCLASSED 

went  on  to  the  two  or  three  houses  that  remained.  On 
turning  back,  he  met  Slimy  at  the  door ;  the  man  nodded 
in  his  wonted  way,  grinning  like  a  grisly  phantom,  and 
beckoned  Waymark  to  follow  him  upstairs.  The  woman 
below  had  closed  her  door  again,  and  in  all  probability  no 
one  observed  the  two  entering  together. 

Waymark  sat  down  amid  the  collection  of  nondescript 
articles  which  always  filled  the  room,  and  waited  for  the 
tenant  to  produce  his  rent.  Slimy  seemed  to  have  other 
things  in  mind.  After  closing  the  door,  he  too  had  taken 
a  seat,  upon  a  heap  of  filthy  sacking,  and  was  running  his 
fingers  through  the  shock  of  black  hair  which  made  his  beard. 
Waymark  examined  him.  There  was  no  sign  of  intoxication, 
but  something  was  evidently  working  in  the  man's  mind,  and 
his  breath  came  quickly,  with  a  kind  of  asthmatic  pant,  from 
between  his  thin  lips,  still  parted  in  the  uncanny  grin. 

"  Mr.  Waymark,"  he  began  at  length. 

"Well?" 

"  I  ain't  got  no  rent." 

"  That's  bad.     You're  two  weeks  behind,  you  know." 

"Mr.  Waymark." 

The  single  eye  fixed  itself  on  Waymark's  face  in  a  way 
which  made  the  latter  feel  uncomfortable, 

"Well?" 

"  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  pay  you  no  more  rent,  nor  yet  no  one 
else,  maybe." 

"How's  that?" 

"'Cos  I  ain't,  and  'cos  I'm  tired  o'  payin'  rent." 

"I'm  afraid  you'll  find  it  difficult  to  get  on  without, 
though,"  said  Waymark,  trying  to  get  into  the  jocular  tone 
he  sometimes  adopted  with  Slimy,  but  scarcely  succeeding. 

"Mr.  Waymark." 

There  was  clearly  something  wrong.  Waymark  rose  to 
his  feet.  Slimy  rose  also,  and  at  the  same  time  took  up  a 
heavy  piece  of  wood,  looking  like  a  piece  of  a  cart-shaft, 
which  had  lain  on  the  floor  beside  him.  His  exclamation 
elicited  no  answer,  and  he  spoke  again,  hoarsely  as  always, 
but  with  a  calmness  which  contrasted  strangely  with  the 
words  he  uttered. 

"Do  you  believe  in  the  devil  and  hell ?" 

"Why?"  returned  Waymark,  trying  hard  to  command 
himself,  and  to  face  down  the  man  as  a  wild  beast  has  been 
known  to  be  out-gazed. 


SLIMY'S  DAY  231 

"'Cos,  by  the  devil  himself,  as  '11  have  me  before  many 
weeks  is  over,  and  by  the  fires  of  hell,  as  '11  burn  me,  if  you 
stir  a  step,  or  speak  a  word  above  your  breath,  I'll  bring 
you  down  just  like  they  do  the  bullocks.     Y'  understand?" 

Waymark  saw  that  the  threat  was  no  idle  one.  He  could 
scarcely  have  spoken,  had  he  wished.  Slimy  grinned  at  the 
effect  he  had  produced,  and  continued  in  the  same  matter- 
of-fact  way. 

"  It  takes  you  back  a  bit,  don't  it  ?  ISTever  mind ;  you'll 
get  over  it.  I  don't  mean  you  no  'arm,  Mr.  "Waymark,  but 
rU  have  to  put  you  to  a  little  ill-convenience,  that's  all 
See  now ;  here's  a  bit  o'  stout  rope.  "With  this  'ere,  I'm 
a-goin'  jist  to  tie  you  up,  'and  an'  foot,  you  see.  As  I  said 
before,  if  you  give  me  any  trouble,  well,  I'll  'ave  to  knock 
the  senses  out  0'  you  fust,  that's  all." 

Vain  to  think  of  grappling  with  the  man,  whos«  strength 
Waymark  knew  to  be  extraordinary.  For  a  moment,  the 
shock  of  alarm  had  deprived  him  of  thought  and  power  of 
movement ;  but  this  passed,  and  he  was  able  to  consider  his 
position.  He  looked  keenly  into  Slimy's  face.  Had  the  man 
gone  madl  His  manner  was  scarcely  consistent  with  that  sup- 
position. As  the  alternative  before  him  was  of  such  a  kind, 
"Waymark  could  but  choose  the  lesser  evil.  He  allowed  Slimy 
to  remove  from  his  shoulders  the  satchel  which  contained  the 
sums  of  money  he  had  just  collected.  It  was  quietly  put  aside. 

"  Now,"  said  Slimy,  with  the  same  deliberation,  "  1  have 
to  arst  you  just  to  lay  down  on  the  floor,  just  'ere,  see.  It's 
better  to  lay  down  quiet  than  to  be  knocked  down,  you  see." 

"Waymark  mentally  agreed  that  it  was.  His  behaviour 
might  seem  cowardly,  but — to  say  nothing  of  the  loathsome- 
ness of  a  wrestle  with  Slimy — he  knew  very  well  that  any 
struggle,  or  a  shout  for  help,  would  mean  his  death.  He 
hesitated,  felt  ashamed,  but  looked  at  Shmy's  red  eye,  and 
lay  down.  In  taking  the  position  indicated,  he  noticed  that 
three  very  large  iron  hooks  had  been  driven  firmly  into  the 
floor,  in  a  triangular  shape.  Just  beside  the  lower  one  of 
these  his  feet  had  to  rest ;  his  head  lay  between  the  other 
two.  Slimy  now  proceeded  to  bind  his  captive's  feet  to- 
gether with  strong  cord,  and  then  attach  them  firmly  to  the 
hook ;  then  bidding  him  sit  up  for  a  moment,  he  made  his 
hands  fast  behind  his  back ;  lastly,  "VN^aymark  being  again 
recumbent,  a  rope  was  passed  once  round  his  neck,  and  each 
end  of  it  firmly  fastened  to  one  of  the  remaining  hooks. 


232  THE  UNCLASSED 

This  was  not  a  pleasant  moment,  but,  the  operation  com- 
pleted, Waymark  found  that,  though  he  could  not  move  his 
head  an  inch,  there  was  no  danger  of  strangulation  as  long 
as  he  remained  quiet.  In  short,  he  was  bound  as  eifectually 
as  a  man  could  be,  yet  without  much  pain.  The  only  ques- 
tion was,  how  long  he  would  have  to  remain  thus. 

Slimy  examined  his  work,  and  nodded  with  satisfaction. 
Then  he  took  up  the  satchel  again,  opened  it,  and  for  a  few 
moments  kept  diving  his  long  black  fingers  into  the  coins, 
whilst  his  face  was  transformed  to  an  expression  of  grim 
joy.  Presently,  having  satisfied  himself  with  the  feel  of  the 
money,  he  transferred  it  all  to  a  pocket  inside  his  ragged  coat. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Waymark,"  he  recommenced,  seating  himself 
on  the  chair  "Waymark  had  previously  occupied,  "I  ain't 
quite  done  with  ill-conveniencin'  you.  I'm  sorry  to  say  I'll 
'ave  jist  to  put  a  bit  of  a  gag  on,  to  prevent  you  from  'ollerin' 
out  too  soon ;  but  before  1  do  that,  I've  jist  got  a  word  or  two 
to  say.    Let's  spend  our  last  time  together  in  a  friendly  way," 

In  spite  of  his  alarm,  Waymark  observed  with  astonish- 
ment the  change  which  had  come  over  the  man's  mode  of 
speech.  In  all  their  previous  intercourse.  Slimy  had  shown 
himself  barely  articulate ;  for  the  most  part  it  was  difficult 
to  collect  meaning  from  his  grunts  and  snarls.  His  voice 
was  still  dreadfully  husky,  and  indeed  seemed  unused  to  the 
task  of  uttering  so  many  words,  but  for  all  that  he  spoke 
without  hesitation,  and  with  a  reserve  of  force  which  made 
his  utterances  all  the  more  impressive.  Having  bespoken 
his  hearer's  attention  in  this  deliberate  way,  he  became  silent, 
and  for  a  while  sat  brooding,  his  fingers  still  busy  among  the 
coins  in  his  pocket. 

"  I  don't  rightly  know  how  old  I  may  be,"  he  began  at 
length,  "  but  it's  most  like  about  fifty ;  we'll  say  fifty.  For 
fifty  years  I've  lived  in  this  world,  and  in  all  that  time  I 
can't  remember  not  one  single  'appy  day,  not  one.  I  never 
knowed  neither  father  nor  mother ;  I  never  knowed  not  a 
soul  as  belonged  to  me.  Friends  I  'ave  had ;  four  of  'em ; 
and  their  names  was  Brandy,  Whisky,  Rum,  an'  Gin.  But 
they've  cost  me  a  good  deal,  an'  somehow  they  ain't  quite 
what  they  used  to  be.  They  used  to  make  me  merry  for  a 
while,  now  and  then ;  but  they've  taken  now  to  burnin'  up 
my  inside,  an'  filling  my  'ead  with  devils ;  an'  I'm  gettin' 
afeard  of  'em,  an'  they'll  'ave  to  see  me  through  to  the  end. 

"  Fifty  year,"  he  resumed,  after  another  interval  of  brood- 


SLIMY'S  DAY  233 

ing,  •*  an'  not  one  'appy  day.  I  was  a-thinkin'  of  it  over  to 
myself,  and,  says  I,  '  What's  the  reason  on  it  1 '  The  reason 
is,  'cos  I  ain't  never  'ad  money.  Money  means  'appiness, 
an'  them  as  never  'as  money,  '11  never  be  'appy,  live  as  long 
as  they  may.  Well,  I  went  on  a-sayin'  to  myself,  'Ain't 
I  to  'ave  not  one  'appy- day  in  all  my  life?'  An'  it  com©  to 
me  all  at  once,  with  a  ilash  like,  that  money  was  to  be  'ad 
for  the  trouble  o'  takin'  it — money  an'  'appiness." 

The  bleared  eye  roUed  with  a  sort  of  self-congratulation, 
and  the  coins  jingled  more  loudly. 

"A  pound  ain't  no  use;  nor  yet  two  pound ;  nor  yet  five 
pound.  Aji'  five  pound's  what  I  never  'ad  in  fifty  year. 
There's  a  good  deal  more  than  five  pound  'ere  now,  Mr. 
Waymark ;  I've  reckoned  it  up  in  my  'ead.  What  d'  you 
think  I'm  a-goin'  for  to  do  with  it  ? " 

He  asked  this  question  after  a  pause,  with  his  head  bent 
forward,  his  countenance  screwed  into  the  most  hideous 
expression  of  cunning  and  gratified  desire. 

"I'm  a-goin',"  he  said,  with  the  emphasis  of  a  hoarse 
whisper,  "  I  a-goin'  to  drink  myself  dead !  That's  what  I'm 
a-goin'  to  do,  Mr.  Waymark.  My  four  friends  ain't  what 
they  used  for  to  be,  an'  'cos  I  ain't  got  enough  of  'em.  It's 
unsatisfaction,  that's  what  it  is,  as  brings  the  bumin'  i'  tli' 
inside,  an'  the  devils  in  the  'ead.  Now  I've  got  money,  an' 
for  wunst  in  my  life  I'll  be  satisfied  an'  'appy.  And  then 
I'U  go  where  there's  real  burnin',  an'  real  devils — an'  let  'em 
make  the  most  o'  Slimy  ! " 

Waymark  felt  his  blood  chill  with  horror.  For  years 
after,  the  face  of  Slimy,  as  it  thus  glared  at  him,  haunted 
him  in  dreamful  nights.  Dante  saw  nothing  more  fearful  in 
any  circle  of  hell. 

"Well,  I've  said  my  say,"  Slimy  remarked,  rising  from 
his  seat.  "An'  now,  I'm  sorry  I'U  'ave  to  ill-convenience 
you,  Mr.  Waymark.  You've  behaved  better  to  me  than 
most  has,  and  I  wouldn't  pay  you  in  ill-convenience,  if  I 
could  help  it.  But  I  must  have  time  enough  to  get  off  clear. 
I'll  'ave  jist  to  keep  you  from  'ollerin' — this  way,  see — but 
I  won't  hurt  you ;  the  nose  is  good  enough  for  breathin'. 
I'll  see  as  some  one  conies  to  let  you  out  before  to-morrow 
mornin'.  An'  now  I'll  say  good-bye,  Mr.  Waymark.  You 
won't  see  Slimy  in  this  world  again,  an'  if  I  only  knowed 
'ow  to  say  a  prayer,  vhy,  I'd  pray  as  you  mightn't  never  see 
him  in  the  next." 


234  THE  UNCLASSED 

"With  one  more  look,  a  look  at  once  of  wild  anticipation 
and  friendly  regret,  Slimy  disappeared. 

The  relief  consequent  upon  the  certainty  that  no  worse 
could  happen  had  brought  Waymark  into  a  state  of  mind  in 
which  he  could  regard  his  position  with  equanimity.  The 
loss  of  the  money  seemed  now  to  be  the  most  serious  result 
of  the  affair.  Slimy  had  promised  that  release  should  come 
before  the  morning,  and  would  doubtless  keep  his  word; 
Waymark  had  a  certain  confidence  in  this,  which  a  less 
interested  person  would  perhaps  have  deemed  scarcely  war- 
rantable. In  the  meantime,  the  discomfort  was  not  extreme; 
to  lie  gagged  and  bound  on  a  garret-floor  for  some  few  hours, 
was,  after  all,  a  situation  which  a  philosopher  might  patiently 
endure,  and  to  an  artist  it  might  well  be  suggestive  of  useful 
hints.  Breathing,  to  be  sure,  was  not  easy,  but  became  more 
so  by  degrees. 

But  with  the  complete  recollection  of  his  faculties  came 
back  the  thought  of  what  was  involved  in  the  question  of 
release  before  the  following  day.  Early  in  the  morning  he 
had  to  be  at  the  door  of  Tothill  Fields'  Prison.  How  if  his 
release  were  delayed,  through  Slimy's  neglect  or  that  of  the 
agent  he  might  employ  ?  As  the  first  hour  passed  slowly  by, 
this  became  the  chief  anxiety  in  Waymark's  mind.  It  made 
him  forgetful  of  the  aching  in  his  arms,  caused  by  the  bind- 
ing together  of  his  hands  behind  him,  and  left  no  room  for 
anticipation  of  the  other  sufferings  which  would  result  from 
his  being  left  thus  for  an  indefinite  period.  What  would 
Ida  do,  if  she  came  out  and  found  no  one  to  meet  her  ? 

His  absence  would  make  no  one  anxious,  at  all  events  not 
till  more  than  a  day  had  gone  by.  Hitherto  he  had  always 
taken  his  rents  at  once  to  Mr.  Woodstock's  office,  but  the 
old  gentleman  was  not  likely  to  be  disturbed  by  his  non- 
appearance ;  it  would  be  accounted  for  in  some  simple  way, 
and  his  coming  expected  on  the  following  morning.  Then  it 
was  as  good  as  certain  that  no  one  would  come  to  Slimy's 
room.  And,  by  the  by,  had  not  there  been  a  sound  of  the 
turning  of  a  key  when  Slimy  took  his  departure  ?  He  could 
not  be  quite  sure  of  this ;  just  then  he  had  noticed  all  things 
so  imperfectly.  Was  it  impossible  to  free  a  limb,  or  to  ungag 
his  mouth  ?  He  tried  to  turn  his  head,  but  it  was  clear  that 
throttling  would  be  the  only  result  of  any  such  effort ;  and 
the  bonds  on  hands  and  feet  were  immoveable.  No  escape, 
save  by  Slimy's  aid. 


SLIMY'S  DAY  235 

He  determined  not  to  face  the  possibility  of  Slimy's  failing 
in  his  word ;  otherwise,  anxiety  would  make  him  desperate. 
He  recognised  now,  for  the  first  time  fully,  how  much  it 
meant  to  him,  that  meeting  with  Ida.  The  shock  he  had 
experienced  on  hearing  her  sentence  and  beholding  her  face 
as  she  left  the  court  had  not,  apparently,  produced  lasting 
results ;  his  weakness  surprised  him  when  he  looked  back 
upon  it.  In  a  day  or  two  he  had  come  to  regard  the  event 
as  finally  severing  him  from  Ida,  and  a  certain  cahn  ensuing 
hereupon  led  to  the  phase  which  ultimately  brought  him  to 
Maud  once  more.  But  Waymark's  introspection  was  at 
fault;  he  understood  himself  less  in  proportion  as  he  felt 
that  the  ground  was  growing  firmer  under  his  feet.  Even 
when  he  wrote  the  letter  to  the  prison,  promising  to  meet 
Ida,  he  had  acted  as  if  out  of  mere  humanity.  It  needed  a 
chance  such  as  the  present  to  open  his  eyes.  That  she 
should  quit  the  prison,  and,  not  finding  him,  wander  away 
in  blank  misery  and  hopelessness,  most  likely  embittered  by 
the  thought  that  he  had  carelessly  neglected  to  meet  her,  and 
so  driven  to  despair — such  a  possibility  was  intolerable. 
The  fear  of  it  began  to  goad  him  in  flesh  and  spirit.  With 
a  sudden  violent  stringing  of  all  his  sinews,  he  Avrenched  at 
the  bonds,  but  only  with  the  effect  of  exhausting  himself  and 
making  the  walls  and  ceiling  reel  before  his  eyes.  The 
attempt  to  utter  cries  resulted  in  nothing  but  muffled  moan- 
ing. Then,  mastering  himself  once  more,  he  resolved  to  be 
patient.     Slimy  would  not  fail  him. 

He  tried  not  to  think  of  Ida  in  any  way,  but  this  was 
beyond  his  power.  Again  and  again  she  came  before  his 
mind.  When  he  endeavoured  to  supplant  her  by  the 
image  of  Maud  Enderby,  the  latter's  face  only  irritated 
him.  Till  now,  it  had  been  just  the  reverse ;  the  thought 
of  Maud  had  always  brought  quietness ;  Ida  he  had  recog- 
nised as  the  disturbing  element  of  his  life,  and  had  learned 
to  associate  her  with  his  least  noble  instincts.  Thinking 
of  this  now,  he  began  to  marvel  how  it  could  have  been  so. 
Was  it  true  that  Maud  was  his  good  angel,  that  in  her  he 
had  found  his  ideal  ?  He  had  forced  himself  to  believe 
this,  now  that  he  was  in  honour  bound  to  her;  yet  she 
had  never  made  his  pulse  quicken,  as  it  had  often  done 
when  he  had  approached  Ida.  True,  that  warmth  of  feel- 
ing had  come  to  represent  merely  a  temptation  to  him  ;  but 
was  not  that  the  consequence  of  his  own  ambiguous  atti- 


236  THE  UNCLASSED 

tude?  Suppose  he  had  not  kno-vm  Maud  Enderby,  how 
would  he  then  have  regarded  Ida,  and  his  relations  to  her  ? 
Were  these  in  very  deed  founded  on  nothing  but  selfish 
feeling?  Then  he  reviewed  all  his  acquaintanceship  with 
her  from  the  first,  and  every  detail  of  the  story  grew  to 
a  new  aspect. 

Thinking  of  Ida,  he  found  himself  wondering  how  it  was 
that  Mr.  Woodstock  appeared  to  take  so  much  interest  in  her 
fate.  Several  times  during  the  past  six  months  the  old  man 
had  referred  to  her,  generally  inquiring  whether  Waymark 
had  written  to  or  heard  from  her.  And,  only  two  days  ago, 
he  had  shown  that  he  remembered  the  exact  date  of  her 
release,  in  asking  whether  Waymark  meant  to  do  anything. 
Waymark  replying  that  he  intended  to  meet  her,  and  give 
her  what  assistance  he  could,  the  old  gentleman  had  signified 
his  strong  approval,  and  had  even  gone  on  to  mention  a  house 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  office,  where  Ida  could  be  lodged 
at  first.  A  room  had  accordingly  been  secured  beforehand, 
and  it  was  arranged  that  Waymark  should  take  her  directly 
thither  on  the  Tuesday  morning.  In  reAaewing  all  this, 
Waymark  found  it  more  significant  than  he  had  imagined. 
Why,  he  wondered,  had  Mr.  Woodstock  grown  so  philan- 
throphic  all  at  once?  Why  had  he  been  so  particular  in 
making  sure  that  Waymark  would  meet  the  girl  ?  Indeed, 
from  the  very  beginning  of  this  affair,  he  had  behaved  with 
regard  to  it  in  a  manner  quite  unlike  himself.  Waymark 
had  leisure  now  to  ponder  these  things,  but  could  only  con- 
jecture explanations. 

The  hours  went  by ;  a  church  clock  kept  him  aware  of 
their  progress.  The  aching  in  his  arms  became  severe ;  he 
sufiered  from  cold.  The  floor  was  swept  by  a  draught  which 
seemed  strong  and  keen  as  a  blast  of  east  wind ;  it  made  his 
eyes  smart,  and  he  kept  them  closed,  with  some  slight  hope 
that  this  might  also  have  the  efiect  of  inducing  sleep.  Sleep, 
however,  held  far  aloof  from  him.  When  he  had  wearied 
his  brain  with  other  thoughts,  his  attention  began  to  turn 
to  sounds  in  the  court  below.  There,  just  as  it  grew  dusk, 
some  children  were  playing,  and  he  tried  to  get  amusement 
from  their  games.  One  of  them  was  this,  A  little  girl  would 
say  to  the  rest : — "  I  sent  my  daughter  to  the  oil-shop,  and 
the  first  thing  she  saw  was  C ; "  and  the  task  was  to  guess 
for  what  article  this  initial  stood.  '*  Carrots  ! "  cried  one, 
but  was  laughed  to  scorn.     '*  Candles ! "  cried  another,  and 


SLIMY'S  DAY  237 

triumphed.  Then  there  were  games  which  consisted  in  the 
saying  of  strange  incantations.  The  children  would  go  round 
and  round,  as  was  evident  from  the  sound  of  their  feet, 
chanting  the  while  : — "  Sally,  Sally  Wallflower,  Sprinkle  in 
a  pan ;  Rise,  Sally  Wallflower,  And  choose  your  young  man. 
Choose  for  the  fairest  one,  Choose  for  the  best,  Choose  for 
the  rarest  one.  That  you  love  best ! "  Upon  this  followed 
words  and  movements  only  half  understood ;  then  at  lengtli 
broke  out  a  sort  of  hymeneal  chorus  : — "Here  stands  a  young 
couple,  Just  married  and  settled  :  Their  father  and  mother 
they  must  obey.  They  love  one  another  like  sister  and 
brother.  So  pray,  young  couple,  come  kiss  together  ! "  Lastly, 
laughter  and  screams  and  confusion.  This  went  on  till  it 
was  quite  dark. 

Pitch  dark  in  Slimy's  room ;  only  the  faintest  reflection 
on  a  portion  of  the  ceiling  of  lamplight  from  without.  Way- 
mark's  sufl"eriiigs  became  extreme.  The  rope  about  his  neck 
seemed  to  work  itself  tighter ;  there  were  moments  when  he 
had  to  struggle  for  the  scant  breath  which  the  gag  allowed 
him.  He  feared  lest  he  should  become  insensible,  and  so 
perhaps  be  sufi'ocated.  His  arms  were  entirely  numbed ;  he 
could  not  feel  that  he  was  lying  on  them.  Surely  Slimy's 
emissary  would  come  before  midnight. 

"  One,  two,  three,  four twelve  ! "     How  was  it  that 

he  had  lost  all  count  of  the  hours  since  eight  o'clock? 
Whether  that  had  been  sleep  or  insensibility,  Waymark 
could  not  decide.  Intensity  of  cold  must  have  brought  back 
consciousness ;  his  whole  body  seemed  to  be  frozen ;  his  eyes 
ached  insufi'erablY.  Continuous  thought  had  somehow  be- 
come an  impossibility ;  he  knew  that  Ida  was  constantly  in 
his  mind,  and  her  image  clear  at  times  in  the  dark  before 
him,  but  he  could  not  think  about  her  as  he  wished  and  tried 
to  do.  Who  was  it  that  seemed  to  come  between  her  and 
him? — some  one  he  knew,  yet  could  not  identify.  Then 
the  hours  sounded  uncertainly;  some  he  appeared  to  have 
missed.  There,  at  length,  was  seven.  Why,  this  was  morn- 
ing ;  and  Slimy  had  promised  that  he  should  be  set  free 
before  this.  What  was  it  that  tortured  his  struggling  brain 
30 1  A  thought  he  strove  in  vain  for  a  time  to  grasp.  The 
meaning  flashed  upon  him.  By  a  great  eff"ort  he  regained 
complete  consciousness ;  mind  alone  seemed  to  be  left  to 
him,  his  body  was  dead.  Was  he,  then,  really  to  be  pre- 
vented from  keeping  his  promise  to  Ida  1    All  the  sufifering 


238  THE  UNCLASSED 

of  his  previous  life  amassed  was  nothing  to  what  Waymark 
endured  during  the  successive  quarters  of  this  hour.  His 
brain  burned  :  his  eyes  had  no  power  to  gather  the  growing 
dayhght.  That  one  name  was  his  single  perception;  the 
sound  of  it,  uttered  incessantly  in  thought,  alone  seemed  to 
keep  him  conscious.  He  could  feel  something  slightly  warm 
on  his  cheeks,  but  did  not  know  that  it  was  the  streaming 
of  tears  from  his  darkened  eyes.  Then  he  lost  consciousness 
once  more. 

The  clock  struck  eight. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

FREEDOM 

Mb.  Woodstock  was  not  so  indifferent  with  regard  to  Way- 
mark's  failure  to  bring  the  rents  as  the  young  man  supposed. 
Under  ordinary  circumstances  he  probably  would  have  waited 
without  any  anxiety  till  the  following  day ;  already  on  a 
previous  occasion  Waymark  had  collected  on  Tuesday  instead 
of  Monday,  though  not  without  notice  of  his  intention  to  do 
so.  But  Mr.  Woodstock  had  quite  special  reasons  for  wishing 
to  see  his  agent  before  the  following  morning ;  he  desired  to 
assure  himself  once  more  that  Waymark  would  not  fail  to  be 
at  the  prison  punctually.  When  the  afternoon  passed  without 
the  usual  visit,  he  grew  uneasy ;  he  was  incapable  of  attend- 
ing to  matters  of  business,  and  walked  up  and  down  his  office 
with  impatient  step.  Such  a  mood  was  extraordinary  in 
Mr.  Woodstock ;  he  had  often  waxed  restive  in  this  or  that 
business  difficulty ;  was,  indeed,  anything  but  remarkable 
for  equanimity  under  trial ;  but  his  state  of  mind  was  quite 
difFerent  at  present,  and  exhibited  itself  in  entirely  different 
ways.  He  neither  swore  nor  looked  black;  his  was  the 
anxiety  of  a  man  who  has  some  grave  interest  at  stake 
wherein  the  better  part  of  his  nature  is  concerned. 

At  five  o'clock  he  took  a  cab,  and  went  off  to  Waymark's 
lodgings  in  Chelsea.  Here  he  learned  that  Waymark  had 
left  home  at  the  usual  time,  and  had  not  yet  returned.  Just 
as  he  was  speaking  with  the  landlady  at  the  door,  another 
gentleman  came  up  on  the  same  errand.  Mr.  Woodstock 
remembered  Julian  Casti,  and  held  out  his  hand  to  him. 
Casti  looked  ill ;  his  handsome  features  had  wasted,  and  his 


FREEDOM  239 

fair  complexion  was  turned  to  a  dull,  unhealthy,  yellowish 
hue.  It  was  a  comparatively  warm  day  for  the  season,  but 
his  thin  frame  was  closely  muffled  up,  and  still  he  seemed 
to  be  shrinking  under  the  air. 

"  Have  you  any  idea  where  he  can  be  ? "  Mr.  Woodstock 
asked,  as  they  turned  away  together. 

"None  whatever.  I  must  see  him  to-night,  though,  if 
possible." 

"  Ha !     And  I  too." 

As  he  spoke  Mr.  Woodstock  looked  at  the  other  keenly, 
and  something  seemed  to  suggest  itself  to  him. 

"I'm  going  to  see  if  he's  been  for  the  rents  as  usual. 
Would  you  care  to  come  with  me  1 " 

Julian  looked  surprised,  but  assented.  They  got  into  the 
cab  together,  and  alighted  at  the  end  of  Litany  Lane,  having 
scarcely  spoken  on  the  way.  Inquiries  here  showed  that 
the  collector  had  gone  his  rounds,  and  departed,  it  was  said, 
in  the  ordinary  way. 

"  Have  you  an  hour  to  spare,  Mr.  Casti  ? "  asked  the  old 
gentleman,  turning  suddenly  after  a  moment's  reflection. 

"  Certainly." 

"  Then  I  wish  you'd  just  come  on  with  me  to  St.  John's 
Street  Road.  It's  possible  you  may  have  it  in  your  power 
to  do  me  a  great  service,  if  Waymark  doesn't  turn  up.  And 
yet,  ten  to  one,  I  shall  find  him  waiting  for  me.  Never  mind, 
come  along  if  you  can  spare  the  time ;  you'll  find  him  the 
sooner." 

Mr.  Woodstock  tried  to  pooh-pooh  his  own  uneasiness ; 
yet,  totally  improbable  as  it  seemed  that  Waymark  should 
disappear  at  such  a  juncture,  the  impatience  of  the  afternoon 
had  worked  him  into  a  most  unwonted  fit  of  nervousness. 
Doubts  and  suspicions  which  would  ordinarily  never  have 
occurred  to  him  filled  his  mind.  He  was  again  quite  silent 
till  his  office  was  reached. 

Waymark  had  not  been.  They  walked  upstairs  together, 
and  Mr.  Woodstock  asked  his  companion  to  be  seated.  He 
himself  stood,  and  began  to  poke  the  fire. 

"  Do  you  live  in  Chelsea  still  ? "  he  suddenly  asked. 

"Yes." 

"  I  have  left  word  at  Waymark's  lodgings  that  he  is  to 
come  straight  here  whenever  he  returns.  If  he's  not  here  by 
midnight,  should  I  find  you  up  if  I  called — say  at  half-past 
twelve  or  so  t " 


a40  THE  UNCLASSED 

"  I  would  in  any  case  wait  up  for  you,  with  pleasure  ? " 

"Really,"  said  Mr.  Woodstock,  who  could  behave  with 
much  courtesy  when  he  chose,  "  I  must  apologise  for  taking 
such  liberties.  Our  acquaintance  is  so  slight.  And  yet  I 
believe  you  would  willingly  serve  me  in  the  matter  in  hand. 
Perhaps  you  guess  what  it  is.  Never  mind ;  I  could  speak 
of  that  when  I  came  to  you,  if  I  have  to  come." 

Julian's  pale  cheek  had  flushed  with  a  sudden  warmth. 
He  looked  at  the  other,  and  faced  steadily  the  gaze  that  met 
his  own. 

"  I  am  absolutely  at  your  disposal,"  he  said,  in  a  voice 
which  he  tried  to  make  firm,  though  with  small  success. 

"  I  am  obliged  to  you.  And  now  you  wUl  come  and  have 
something  to  eat  with  me ;  it  is  my  usual  time." 

Julian  declined,  however,  and  almost  immediately  took  his 
leave.  He  walked  all  the  way  to  Chelsea,  regarding  nothing 
that  he  passed.  When  he  found  himself  in  his  lodgings  he 
put  a  match  to  the  ready-laid  fire,  and  presently  made  himself 
some  tea.  Then  he  sat  idly  through  the  evening,  for  the 
most  part  staring  into  the  glowing  coals,  occasionally  taking 
up  a  book  for  a  few  minutes,  and  throwing  it  aside  again 
with  a  sigh  of  weariness.  As  it  got  late  he  shivered  so  with 
cold,  in  spite  of  the  fire,  that  he  had  to  sit  in  his  overcoat. 
When  it  was  past  midnight  he  began  to  pace  the  room, 
making  impatient  gestures,  and  often  resting  his  head  upon 
his  hands  as  if  it  ached.  It  must  have  been  about  a  quarter 
to  one  when  there  was  the  sound  of  a  vehicle  pulling  up  in 
the  street  below,  followed  by  a  knock  at  the  door.  Julian 
went  down  himself,  and  admitted  Mr.  Woodstock. 

"  What  can  it  mean  ? "  he  asked  anxiously,  when  they  had 
walked  up  to  the  room  together.    "What  has  become  of  him'}" 

"Don't  know.     I  stopped  at  his  place  on  the  way  here." 

"  Don't  you  fear  some  mischance  ?  With  all  that  money " 

"  Pooh  !  It's  some  absurd  freak  of  his,  I'll  warrant.  He 
doesn't  care  how  much  anxiety  he  gives  other  people." 

Mr.  Woodstock  was  excited  and  angry. 

"  But  he  will  certainly  go — go  there  in  the  morning,  where- 
ever  he  is,"  said  Julian. 

"I'm  not  so  sure  of  that.  I  believe  it's  on  that  very 
account  that  he's  keeping  out  of  the  way  ! " 

He  smote  his  fist  on  the  palm  of  tlie  other  hand  with  the 
emphasis  of  conviction.  Julian  looked  at  him  with  an  ex- 
pression of  wonder.     There  was  a  short  silence,  and  then 


FREEDOM 


841 


Mr.  Woodstock  began  to  speak  more  calmly.  The  conversa- 
tion lasted  only  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  Mr.  Woodstock 
then  returned  to  his  cab,  which  had  waited,  and  Julian  bade 
him  good  night  at  the  door. 

At  six  o'clock  Julian  arose.  It  was  still  quite  dark  when 
he  left  the  house,  and  the  air  was  piercing.  But  he  did  not 
mind  the  weather  this  morning.  His  step  had  a  vigour  very 
different  from  the  trailing  weariness  of  the  night  before,  and 
he  looked  straight  before  him  as  he  walked.  There  was  a 
heat  on  his  forehead  which  the  raw  breath  of  the  morning 
could  not  allay.  Before  he  had  gone  half  a  mile,  he  flung  open 
his  overcoat,  as  if  it  oppressed  him.  It  was  in  the  direction 
of  Westminster  that  he  walked.  Out  of  Victoria  Street  he 
took  the  same  turn  as  on  one  miserable  night,  one  which  he 
had  taken  on  many  a  night  since  then.  But  he  was  far  too 
early  at  the  prison  gate.  He  strayed  about  the  little  streets 
of  the  neighbourhood,  his  eyes  gazing  absently  in  this  or  that 
direction,  his  hot  breath  steaming  up  in  the  grey  light.  When 
it  was  drawing  near  the  time,  he  made  some  inquiries  from  a 
policeman  whom  he  passed.  Then  he  went  to  the  spot  whither 
he  was  directed,  and  watched.  Two  or  three  people,  of  poor 
appearance,  were  also  standing  about,  waiting.  Julian  kept 
apart  from  them.  First,  a  miserable  old  woman,  huddling 
herself  in  a  dirty  shawl ;  looking  on  all  sides  with  a  greedy 
eye ;  hastening  off  no  one  knew  whither.  Then  two  young 
girls,  laughing  aloud  at  their  recovered  liberty ;  they  repaired 
at  once  to  the  nearest  public-house.  Then  a  figure  of  quite 
different  appearance,  coming  quickly  forward,  hesitating, 
gazing  around ;  a  beautiful  face,  calm  with  too  great  self- 
control,  sad,  pale.     Towards  her  Julian  advanced. 

*'  Mr.  Waymark  was  unavoidably  prevented  from  coming," 
he  said  quickly.  "  But  he  has  taken  rooms  for  you.  You 
wiU  let  me  go  with  you,  and  show  you  the  house  1 " 

"Thank  you,"  was  Ida's  only  reply. 

They  walked  together  into  the  main  street,  and  Julian 
stopped  the  first  empty  cab  that  passed.  As  he  sat  opposite 
to  her,  his  eyes,  in  spite  of  himself,  kept  straying  to  her  face. 
Gazing  at  her,  Casti's  eyes  grew  dim.  He  forced  himself  not 
to  look  at  her  again  till  the  cab  stopped. 

"  They  are  prepared  for  you  here,"  he  said,  as  they  stood 
on  the  pavement.  "  Just  give  your  name.  And — you  will 
not  go  away  ?     You  will  wait  till  some  one  calls  1 " 

Ida  nodded. 


342  THE  UNCLASSED 

"No;   but  your  word,"  Julian  urged  anxiously.     "Pro- 


mise me." 


"  I  promise." 

She  wentup  to  the  door  and  knocked.  Julian  walked  quickly 
away.    At  the  end  of  the  street  Mr.  "Woodstock  was  waiting. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  asked,  examining  the  young 
man  anxiously. 

"  Nothing — nothing  ! " 

"  Does  she  seem  well  1 " 

"I  think  bo;  yes,"  Casti  replied,  in  a  stifled  voice.  Then 
he  asked  hurriedly,  *'  Where  can  Waymark  be  ?  What  does 
it  all  mean?" 

Mr.  Woodstock  shook  his  head,  looking  annoyed. 

"  I  am  convinced,"  Julian  said,  "  that  something  is  wrong. 
Surely  it's  time  to  make  inquiries." 

"Yes,  yes;  I  will  do  so.  But  you  look  downright  ill. 
Do  you  feel  able  to  get  home?  If  I'd  thought  it  would 
upset  you  like  this " 

Mr.  Woodstock  was  puzzled,  and  kept  scrutinising  the 
other's  face. 

"  I  shall  go  home  and  have  a  little  rest,"  Julian  said.  "  I 
didn't  get  much  sleep  last  night,  that's  all.  But  I  must  hear 
about  Waymark." 

**  You  shall.  I'U  warrant  he  turns  up  in  the  course  of  the 
day.  Don't  be  anxious  :  I'll  get  to  work  as  soon  as  possible 
to  find  him ;  but,  depend  upon  it,  the  fellow's  all  right." 

They  shook  hands,  and  Julian  took  his  way  homewards. 
Mr.  Woodstock  went  to  the  house  which  Ida  had  just  entered. 
He  knocked  lightly,  and  a  woman  opened  to  him  and  led 
him  into  a  sitting-room  on  the  ground-floor. 

"I'U  just  have  a  cup  of  cofiee,  Mrs.  Sims,"  he  said.  "Does 
she  seem  to  care  for  her  breakfast  ? " 

"  I'm  afraid  not,  sir ;  she  looks  tired  out,  and  poorly  like." 

"  Yes,  yes ;  the  long  journey  and  her  troubles.  Make  her 
as  comfortable  as  you  can.  I'll  make  myself  at  home  with 
the  paper  here  for  an  hour  or  so.  Just  see  if  she  cares  to  lie 
down  for  a  little ;  if  so  I  won't  disturb  her." 

Abraham  did  not  devote  much  attention  to  the  news.  He 
sat  before  the  fire,  a  cup  of  cofTee  witliin  reach  on  the  mantel- 
piece, his  legs  fully  stretched  out  before  him,  his  favourite 
attitude  when  thinking.  In  spite  of  his  fresh  complexion 
and  active  limbs,  you  would  have  seen,  had  you  watched  him 
in  his  present  mood,  that  Mr.  Woodstock  was  beginning  to 


FREEDOM  243 

age.  Outwardly  he  was  well-preserved — few  men. of  his  years 
anything  like  so  well.  But  let  the  inner  man  become  visible 
during  a  fit  of  brooding,  and  his  features  made  evident  the 
progi-ess  of  years.  His  present  phase  of  countenance  was  a 
recent  development;  the  relaxed  lines  brought  to  light  a 
human  kindliness  not  easily  discoverable  in  the  set  expression 
of  wide-awake  hours.  At  present  there  was  even  tenderness 
in  his  eyes,  and  something  of  sad  recollection.  His  strong 
mouth  twitched  a  little  at  times,  and  his  brows  contracted, 
as  if  in  self-reproach.  "When  he  returned  to  himself,  it  was 
with  a  eigh.  He  sat  for  about  an  hour ;  then  the  woman 
presented  herself  again,  and  told  him  that  Miss  Starr  had 
been  persuaded  to  lie  down.   It  seemed  likely  she  might  sleep. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Mr.  "Woodstock,  rising.  "  I'll  go  to  the 
office.     Send  some  one  round  when  she's  stirring,  will  you  ? " 

Ida,  to  get  rid  of  her  troublesome  though  well-meaning 
attendant,  had  promised  to  lie  down,  but  she  had  no  need  of 
sleep.  Alone,  she  still  kept  her  chair  by  the  fire,  sitting  like 
one  worn  out  with  fatigue,  her  hands  upon  her  lap,  her  head 
drooping,  her  eyes  fixed  on  vacancy.  She  was  trying  to 
think,  but  thoughts  refused  to  come  consecutively,  and  a 
dull  annoyance  at  this  inability  to  reason  upon  her  position 
fretted  her  consciousness.  Not  with  impunity  can  the  human 
mind  surrender  itself  for  half  a  year  to  unvaried  brooding 
upon  one  vast  misery ;  the  neglected  faculties  revenge  them- 
selves by  rusting,  and  will  not  respond  when  at  length  sum- 
moned. For  months  Ida's  thoughts  had  gone  round  and 
round  about  one  centre  of  anguish,  like  a  wailing  bird  circling 
over  a  ravaged  nest.  The  image  of  her  mental  state  had 
been  presented  by  an  outward  experience  with  which  she 
became  familiar.  "Waking  long  before  daylight,  she  would 
lie  with  her  eyes  directed  to  the  Httle  barred  window,  and 
watch  till  there  came  the  first  glimmer  of  dawn.  Even  so 
was  it  her  sole  relief  in  the  deep  night  of  her  misery  to  look 
forward  for  that  narrow  gleam  of  hope — her  ultimate  release. 
As  the  day  approached,  she  made  it  the  business  of  her 
thoughts  to  construct  a  picture  of  the  events  it  would  bring. 
Even  before  hearing  from  Waymark,  she  had  been  sure  that 
he  would  meet  her ;  "Waymark  and  freedom  grew  identical 
images ;  to  be  free  meant  to  see  him  awaiting  her  and  to  put 
herself  absolutely  in  his  hands.  Now  that  everything  had 
turned  out  diiferently  from  what  she  had  grown  to  anticipate 
with  certainty,  she  found  herself  powerless  to  face  the  un- 


244  THE  UNCLASSED 

expected.  Why  had  Waymark  failed  her  1 — she  could  do  no 
more  than  repeat  the  question  a  thousand  times,  till  the 
faculty  of  self-communing  forsook  her.  It  was  as  though 
the  sun  should  fail  one  morning  to  rise  upon  the  world,  and 
men  should  stand  hopeless  of  day  for  ever. 

She  wondered  vaguely  whither  she  had  been  brought.  At 
one  moment  she  seemed  to  have  been  waiting  an  eternity  in 
this  unknown  room,  Julian's  face  and  voice  unspeakably  re- 
mote; then  again  she  would  look  round  and  wonder  that 
she  no  longer  saw  the  bare  walls  and  barred  window  of  her 
cell,  the  present  seeming  only  a  dream.  All  the  processes  of 
her  mind  were  slow,  sinewless.  She  tried  to  hope  for  some- 
thing, to  expect  that  something  would  happen,  but  could  not 
summon  the  energy.  Resentment,  revolt,  bitterness  of 
spirit,  of  these  things  she  knew  just  as  little.  They  had 
been  strong  enough  within  her  at  first,  but  how  long  ago 
that  seemed !  She  had  no  thought  of  time  in  the  present ; 
to  sit  waiting  for  an  hour  meant  as  little  as  to  wait  five 
minutes ;  such  was  the  habit  that  had  become  impressed 
upon  her  by  interminable  days  and  nights.  When  at  length 
she  heard  a  knock  at  the  door  it  filled  her  with  fear ;  she 
started  to  her  feet  and  looked  with  unintelligent  eyes  at  the 
woman  who  again  presented  herself. 

"Do  you  feel  better,  'm?"  the  landlady  asked.  "Have 
you  rested  yourself  1 " 

"  Yes,  thank  you." 

The  woman  went  away ;  then  came  another  knock,  and 
Mr.  Woodstock  entered  the  room.  He  closed  the  door  be- 
hind him,  and  drew  near.  She  had  again  started  up,  and 
did  not  move  her  eyes  from  his  face. 

"  Have  you  any  recollection  of  me?"  Abraham  asked,  much 
embarrassed  in  her  presence,  his  voice  failing  to  be  as  gentle 
as  he  wished  through  his  difficulty  in  commanding  it. 

Ida  had  recognised  him  at  once.  He  had  undergone  no 
change  since  that  day  when  she  saw  him  last  in  Milton  Street, 
and  at  this  moment  it  was  much  easier  for  her  to  concentrate 
her  thoughts  upon  bygone  things  than  to  realise  the  present. 

"You are  Abraham  Woodstock,"  she  said  very  coldly,  the 
resentment  associated  with  the  thought  of  him  being  yet 
stronger  than  the  dead  habit  which  had  but  now  oppressed  her. 

"  Yes,  I  am.  And  I  am  a  friend  of  Osmond  Waymark.  I 
should  like  to  talk  a  little  with  you,  if  you'll  let  me." 

The  old  man  found  it  so  hard  to  give  expression  to  the 


FREEDOM  245 

feelings  that  possessed  him.  Ida  concluded  at  once  that  he 
came  with  some  hostile  purpose,  and  the  name  of  Waymark 
was  an  incentive  to  her  numbed  faculties. 

"  How  can  you  be  a  friend  of  Osmond  Waymark  1 "  she 
asked,  with  cold  suspicion. 

"  Didn't  he  ever  mention  my  name  to  you  1 " 

"  Never." 

Waymark  had  in  truth  always  kept  silence  with  Ida  about 
his  occupations,  though  he  had  spoken  so  freely  of  them  to 
Maud.  He  could  not  easily  have  explained  to  himself  why 
he  had  made  this  difference,  though  it  had  a  significance. 
Mr.  Woodstock  was  almost  at  a  loss  how  to  proceed.  He 
coughed,  and  moved  his  foot  uneasily. 

"I  have  known  him  all  his  life,  for  all  that,"  he  said. 
"And  it  was  through  him  I  found  you." 

"Found  me?" 

"  It'll  seem  very  strange,  what  I  have  to  tell  you. — You 
were  a  little  girl  when  I  saw  you  last,  and  you  refused  to 
come  with  me.     Had  you  any  idea  why  I  asked  you  ? " 

"  I  hadn't  then." 

"  But  you  have  thought  of  it  since  1 " 

Ida  looked  at  him  sternly,  and  turned  her  eyes  away  again. 
The  belief  that  he  was  her  father  had  always  increased  the 
resentment  with  which  she  recalled  his  face. 

"  I  am  your  grandfather,"  Abraham  said  gravely.  "  Your 
mother  was  my  daughter." 

A  change  came  over  her  countenance ;  she  gazed  at  him 
with  wonder. 

•'  Who  did  you  think  I  was  1 "  he  asked. 

She  hesitated  for  a  moment,  then,  instead  of  replying,  said : 

"  You  behaved  cruelly  to  my  poor  mother." 

"  I  won't  deny  it,"  the  old  man  returned,  mastering  his 
voice  with  difficulty.  "  I  ought  to  have  been  more  patient 
with  her.  But  she  refused  to  obey  me,  and  I  can't  help  my 
nature.     I  repented  it  when  it  was  too  late." 

Ida  could  not  know  what  it  cost  him  to  utter  these  abrupt 
sentences.  He  seemed  harsh,  even  in  confining  his  harshness. 
She  was  as  far  from  him  as  ever. 

"  I  can't  do  anything  for  her,"  Mr.  Woodstock  continued, 
trying  to  look  her  in  the  face.  "  But  you  are  her  child,  and 
I  want  to  do  now  what  I  ought  to  have  done  long  ago.  I've 
come  here  to  ask  you  if  you'll  live  in  my  house,  and  be  like 
a  child  of  my  own." 


246  THE  UNCLASSED 

"  I  don't  feel  to  you  as  a  child  ought,"  Ida  said,  her  voice 
changing  to  sadness.     "You've  left  it  too  late." 

"  No,  it  isn't  too  late  ! "  exclaimed  the  other,  with  emotion 
he  could  not  control.  "  You  mustn't  think  of  yourself,  but 
of  me.  You  have  all  your  life  before  you,  but  I'm  dtawing 
near  to  the  end  of  mine.  There's  no  one  in  the  world  be- 
longing to  me  but  you.     I  have  a  right  to " 

"  No  right !  no  right ! "  Ida  interrupted  him  almost 
passionately. 

"Then  you  have  a  duty,"  said  Abraham,  with  lowered 
voice.  "  My  mind  isn't  at  ease,  and  it's  in  your  power  to 
help  me.  Don't  imitate  me,  and  put  off  doing  good  till  it  is 
too  late.  I  don't  ask  you  to  feel  kindly  to  me  ;  all  I  want  is 
that  you'll  let  me  take  you  to  my  home  and  do  all  I  can  for 
you,  both  now  and  after  I'm  gone." 

There  was  pathos  in  the  speecli,  and  Ida  felt  it. 

"Do  you  know  where  I  came  from  this  morning?"  she 
asked,  when  both  had  been  silent  for  some  moments. 

"  I  know  all  about  it.  I  was  at  the  trial,  and  I  did  my 
best  for  you  then." 

"Do  you  believe  that  I  robbed  that  woman?"  Ida  asked, 
leaning  forward  with  eager  eyes  and  quickened  breath. 

"  Believe  it !  Not  I !  No  one  believes  it  who  knows  any- 
thing about  her.  Waymark  said  he  wouldn't  have  believed 
it  if  all  the  courts  in  England  found  you  guilty." 

"He  said  that?"  she  exclaimed.  Then,  as  if  suddenly  be- 
coming clearer  about  her  position  :  "  Where  is  Mr.  "Waymaik? 
Why  didn't  he  meet  me  as  he  promised  ? " 

Abraham  hesitated,  but  speedily  made  up  his  mind  that  it 
would  be  best  to  speak  the  truth. 

'•  I  know  as  little  as  you  do.  He  ought  to  have  come  to 
me  yesterday,  but  he  didn't,  and  I  can't  discover  him.  I  got 
Mr.  Casti  to  meet  you  instead." 

The  keenest  trouble  manifested  itself  on  Ida's  counten- 
ance. She  asked  questions  in  rapid  succession,  and  thus 
elicited  an  explanation  of  all  the  circumstances  hitherto 
unknown  to  her. 

"  Have  you  been  through  the  houses  ? "  she  inquired,  all 
her  native  energy  restored  by  apprehension.  "  Haven't  you 
thought  that  he  may  have  been  robbed  and " 

She  stopped,  overcome  by  sudden  weakness,  and  sank  into 
the  chair. 

"  Come,  come,  it  isn't  so  bad  as  all  that,"  said  the  old  man. 


ELM  COURT  947 

observing  her  closely.  "  He  may  turn  up  at  any  moment ; 
all  sorts  of  unexpected  things  may  have  happened.  But  I'll 
go  again  to  his  lodgings,  and  if  I  can't  hear  anything  there, 
I'll  set  the  police  to  work.  Will  you  promise  me  to  wait 
here  quietly  1 " 

"iso,  that  I  can't  do.  I  want  to  move  about;  I  must  do 
something.     Let  me  go  with  you  to  look  for  him." 

"  No,  no  ;  that'll  never  do,  Ida." 

The  power  of  speaking  tenderly  seemed  to  have  been  given 
to  him  all  at  once ;  this  and  his  calling  her  "  Ida,"  struck  so 
upon  the  girl's  agitated  feelings  that  she  began  to  sob. 

"  Let  me,  let  me  go  with  you !  I  will  forget  everything 
— I  will  be  your  child — I  will  try  to  love  you." 

She  was  as  weak  as  water,  and  would  have  sunk  to  the 
ground  if  Abraham  had  not  given  her  his  support  just  in 
time.  He  could  not  find  words  to  soothe  her,  but  passed  his 
hand  very  tenderley  over  her  head. 

"  We  are  losing  time  ! "  she  exclaimed,  forcing  herself  into 
an  appearance  of  calmness.     "  Come  at  once." 


CHAPTER  XXX 

ELM   COURT 

In  Beaufort  Street  they  only  learnt  that  Waymark  had  not  yet 
been  home.  Thence  they  drove  to  the  east,  and  stopped  at  a 
police-station,  where  Abraham  saw  the  inspector.  The  latter 
suggested  that  Mr.  Woodstock  should  go  through  all  the  houses 
which  Waymark  would  have  visited ;  if  that  search  proved 
fruitless,  the  police  would  pursue  the  matter.  Ida  insisted  on 
being  allowed  to  accompanying  him  when  the  cab  stopped  at 
the  end  of  Litany  Lane.  She  gazed  about  her  like  one  who  had 
been  suddenly  set  down  in  a  new  country ;  this  squalor  and 
vileness,  so  familiar  to  her  of  old,  affected  her  strangely  under 
the  present  conditions.  The  faces  of  people  at  whom  she 
looked  remained  fresh  ii  her  memory  for  years  after ;  the  long 
confinement  and  the  excitement  which  now  possessed  her  re- 
sulted in  preternatural  acuteness  of  observation.  Abraham 
spoke  first  with  several  people  whom  he  had  already  ques- 
tioned about  Waymark,  but  they  had  heard  nothing  since. 

"  Are  you  strong  enough  for  this  ?  "  he  asked  Ida.    "Hadn't 
you  better  go  back  to  the  cab  and  wait  for  me  1 " 


34$  THE  UNCLASSED 

"  Don't  ask  me  to  do  that ! "  she  entreated  earnestly.  "  I 
mtist  be  active.     I  have  strength  now  for  anything." 

Just  as  she  spoke,  Mr.  "Woodstock  became  aware  of  a  dis- 
turbance of  some  kind  in  a  dirty  little  tobacconist's  shop 
close  at  hand.  There  was  a  small  crowd  at  the  door,  and  the 
sound  of  wrangling  voices  came  from  within.  Such  an 
occurrence  was  too  ordinary  to  suggest  any  special  signifi- 
cance, but  Abraham  would  not  pass  without  making  some 
inquiry.  Begging  Ida  to  stand  where  he  left  her,  he  pushed 
his  way  into  the  shop  and  listened  to  what  was  going  on.  A 
lad,  well  known  in  these  parts  as  "  Lushy  Dick,"  was,  it  ap- 
peared, charging  the  tobacconist  with  cheating  him ;  he 
alleged  that  he  had  deposited  half  a  sovereign  on  the  counter 
in  payment  for  a  cigar,  and  the  shopman  had  given  him 
change  as  if  for  sixpence,  maintaining  stoutly  that  sixpence  had 
been  the  coin  given  him,  and  no  half-sovereign  at  all.  When 
Mr.  Woodstock  entered,  the  quarrel  had  reached  a  high  pitch. 

"  Arf  a  quid  ! "  the  tobacconist  was  exclaiming  contemptu- 
ously. "  I'd  like  to  know  where  such  as  you's  likely  to  git 
arf  a  quid  from." 

Lushy  Dick,  stung  to  recklessness  by  a  succession  of  such 
remarks,  broke  out  in  vehement  self-justification. 

"  Would  yer  like  to  know,  y'  old !     Then  yer  shall, 

soon  !     I'm if  I  don't  tell  jist  the truth,  an' 

take  the consequences.    It  was  Slimy  as  give  it  me,  an' 

if  yer  want  to  know  where  Slimy  got  it,  yer  '11  'ave  to 

well  find  out,  'cos  I  don't  know  myself." 

"  And  how  came  Slimy  to  give  you  half  a  sovereign  1 "  Mr. 
Woodstock  at  once  interposed,  speaking  with  authority. 

"  Is  that  you,  Mr.  Woodstock  ^ "  exclaimed  the  boy,  turn- 
ing round  suddenly  at  the  sound  of  the  voice.     •'  Now,  look 

'ere,  I'm  a-goin'  to  make  a clean  breast  of  it.     This  'ere 

bloke's  been  a  ringin'  the  changes  on  me ;  I'U  show 

him  up,  an' well  chance  it.    Slimy  give  me  a  quid  afore 

he  took  his hook." 

The  lad  had  clearly  been  drinking,  but  had  not  yet  reached 
the  incoherent  stage.  He  spoke  in  great  excitement,  repeat- 
ing constantly  his  determination  to  be  revenged  upon  the 
tobacconist  at  all  costs.  It  was  with  difficulty  that  Mr. 
Woodstock  kept  him  to  the  point. 

"  Why  Slimy  give  it  me  ?  Well,  I'll  jist  tell  yer,  Mr. 
Woodstock.  It  was  to  do  a  job  for  him,  which  I  never  done 
it  after  all.    Slimy  told  me  as  'ow  I  was  to  go  to  your  orffice  at 


She  was  on  her  knees  beside  him. — Page  24^ 


ELM  COURT  249 

ten  o'clock  last  night,  'an  tell  you  from  him  as  he'd  no  more 
'casion  for  his  room,  so  he'd  sent  yer  tlie  key,  an'  yer'd  better 
come  as  soon  as  possible  an'  see  as  he'd  left  everything  square 
behind  him,  an'  'cos  he  was  afraid  he'd  locked  in  a  friend  o' 
yourn  by  mistake  an'  in  his  hurry." 

"  And  why  the  devil  didn't  you  come  ? "  exclaimed  Abra- 
ham, looking  at  him  in  angry  surprise. 

"  'Cos  why,  Mr.  Woodstock  1  Well,  I'll  tell  yer  just  the 
bloomin'  truth,  an'  charnce  it.     I  loss  the  key  out  o'  my 

pocket,  through  'avin'  a hole  in  it,  so  I  thought  as  'ow 

I'd  best  just  say  nothtnk  about  neither  Slimy  nor  his  room, 
an'  there  y'ave  it ! " 

Abraham  was  out  of  the  shop  again  on  the  instant. 

"  I've  found  him,"  he  said  to  Ida.  "  A  house  round  there 
in  the  court." 

She  walked  quickly  by  his  side,  a  cluster  of  people  fol- 
lowing^ them.  Fortunately,  a  policeman  was  just  coming 
from  the  opposite  end  of  Litany  Lane,  and  Mr.  Woodstock 
secured  his  services  to  keep  the  mob  from  entering  the  house 
where  Slimy  had  lived.  As  soon  as  they  got  inside,  the  old 
man  begged  Ida  to  remain  in  a  room  on  the  ground  floor  whilst 
he  went  upstairs,  and  this  she  consented  to  do.  Reaching  the 
garret,  he  tried  the  handle  of  the  door,  without  effect.  Knock- 
ing and  calling  produced  no  response,  and  within  all  was 
perfectly  quiet.  Hesitating  no  longer,  he  drew  back  as  far  as 
the  wall  would  allow  him,  and  ran  with  his  foot  against  the 
door.  The  rotten  woodwork  cracked,  and  a  second  onset  forced 
the  lock  away.  In  the  middle  of  the  floor  Waymark  lay,  just 
as  Slimy  had  left  him  nearly  twenty-four  hours  ago.  Abra- 
ham scarcely  ventured  to  draw  near ;  there  was  no  motion  in 
the  fettered  body,  and  he  dreaded  to  look  closely  at  the  face. 
Before  he  could  overcome  this  momentary  fear,  there  was  a 
quick  step  behind  him,  and,  with  a  smothered  cry,  Ida  had 
rushed  into  the  room.  She  was  on  her  knees  beside  Way- 
mark,  her  face  close  down  to  his. 

"He  is  aUve  !  "  she  cried.  "His  eyes  have  opened.  A 
knife  !     Cut  these  cords  !  " 

That  was  soon  accomplished,  but  Waymark  lay  motionless; 
he  showed  that  he  understood  what  was  going  on,  but  he  was 
quite  blind,  his  voice  had  all  but  gone,  and  a  dead  man  could 
as  soon  have  risen.  Ida  still  knelt  by  him,  chafing  one  of 
his  hands ;  when  he  tried  to  speak,  she  gently  raised  his  head 
and  let  it  rest  upon  her  lap.    In  a  few  minutes  Abraham  had 


250  THE  UNCLASSED 

procured  a  glass  of  spirits,  and,  after  drinking  this,  "Waymark 
was  able  to  make  himself  understood. 

"  Who  is  touching  me  ?  "  he  asked  in  a  hoarse  whisper. 
"  It  is  all  dark.     Whose  hand  is  this  1 " 

"It's  Ida,"  Abraham  said,  when  she  herself  remained 
silent.     "  She  and  I  have  had  a  rare  hunt  for  you." 

"  Ida  ?  " 

He  endeavoured  to  raise  himself,  but  in  vain.  AU  he  could 
do  was  to  press  her  hand  to  his  heart.  In  the  meantime  the 
policeman  had  come  up,  and  with  his  help  Waymark  was 
carried  downstairs,  out  into  the  court,  and  thence  to  the  end 
of  Litany  Lane,  where  the  cab  still  waited. 

Four  days  after  this  the  following  paragraph  appeared  in 
the  morning  papers  : — 

"  The  man  wanted  on  a  charge  of  robbery  with  violence 
in  the  East  End,  and  who  appears  to  be  known  only  by  the 
nickname  of  Slimy,  was  yesterday  afternoon  discovered  by 
the  police  in  a  cellar  in  Limehouse.  He  seems  to  have  been 
in  hiding  there  since  the  perpetration  of  the  crime,  only  going 
out  from  time  to  time  to  purchase  liquor  at  public-houses  in 
the  neighbourhood.  Information  given  by  the  landlord  of 
one  of  these  houses  led  to  his  arrest.  He  was  found  lying  on 
the  stone  floor,  with  empty  bottles  about  him,  also  a  quantity 
of  gold  and  silver  coins,  which  appeared  to  have  rolled  out 
of  his  pocket.  He  was  carried  to  the  police-station  in  an 
insensible  state,  but  on  being  taken  to  the  cell,  came  to 
himself,  and  exhibited  symptoms  of  delirium  tremens.  Two 
officers  remained  with  him,  but  the  assistance  of  a  third 
shortly  became  necessary,  owing  to  the  violence  of  his 
struggles.  Towards  midnight  his  fury  lessened,  and  after  a 
very  brief  interval  of  unconsciousness,  the  wretched  creature 
expired." 

CHAPTER  XXXI 

NEW  PROSPECTS 

Mr.  Woodstock's  house  at  Tottenham  was  a  cheerful  abode 
when  the  months  of  early  summer  came  round,  and  there 
was  thick  leafage  within  the  shelter  of  the  old  brick  wall 
which  shut  it  off  from  the  road. 

For  the  first  time  in  hia  life  he  understood  the  attractiona 


NEW  PROSPECTS  351 

of  domesticity.  During  the  early  months  of  the  year,  slippers 
and  the  fireside  after  dinner ;  now  that  the  sunset-time  was 
growing  warm  and  fragrant,  a  musing  saunter  about  the 
garden  walks ;  these  were  the  things  to  which  his  imagina- 
tion grew  fond  of  turning.  Nor  to  these  only ;  blended  with 
such  visions  of  bodUy  comfort,  perchance  lending  to  them 
their  chief  attraction,  was  the  light  of  a  young  face,  grave 
always,  often  sad,  speaking  with  its  beautiful  eyes  to  those 
simpler  and  tenderer  instincts  of  his  nature  which  had 
hitherto  slept.  In  the  presence  of  Ida  (who  was  now 
known,  by  his  wish,  as  Miss  Woodstock)  Abraham's  hard 
voice  found  for  itself  a  more  modest  and  musical  key. 

He  began — novel  sensation — to  look  upon  himself  as  a 
respectable  old  gentleman  ;  the  grey  patches  on  his  head  were 
grateful  to  him  from  that  point  of  view.  If  only  he  had  been 
able  to  gather  round  his  granddaughter  and  himself  a  circle 
of  equally  respectable  friends  and  acquaintances,  he  would 
have  enjoyed  complete  satisfaction.  Two  or  thi-ee  at  most 
there  were,  whom  he  could  venture  to  bring  over  with  him 
from  the  old  life  to  the  new.  For  Ida  he  could  as  yet  provide 
no  companionship  at  all. 

But  Ida  did  not  feel  the  want.  Since  the  day  of  her  coming 
to  the  new  house  her  life  had  been  very  full ;  so  much  was 
passing  within,  that  she  desired  to  escape,  rather  than  dis- 
cover, new  distractions  in  the  world  around  her.  For  the 
week  or  so  during  which  Waymark  had  lain  ill,  her  courage 
had  triumphed  over  the  sufferings  to  which  she  was  herself 
a  prey ;  the  beginning  of  his  recovery  brought  about  a  re- 
action in  her  state,  and  for  some  days  she  fell  iiito  a  depressed 
feebleness  almost  as  extreme  as  on  the  first  morning  of  her 
freedom.  It  distressed  her  to  be  spoken  to,  and  her  own  lips 
were  all  but  mute.  Mr.  Woodstock  sometimes  sat  by  hor 
whilst  she  slept,  or  seemed  to  be  sleeping  ;  when  she  stiri  ed 
and  showed  consciousness  of  his  presence,  he  left  her,  so  great 
was  his  fear  of  annoying  her,  and  thus  losing  the  ground  he 
had  gained.  Once,  when  he  was  rising  to  quit  the  room,  Ida 
held  out  her  hand  as  if  to  stay  him.  She  was  lying  on  a 
sofa,  and  liad  enjoyed  a  very  quiet  sleep. 

"Grandfather,"  she  murmured,  turning  to  face  him.  It 
was  the  first  time  she  had  addressed  him  thus,  and  the  old 
man's  eyes  brightened  at  the  sound. 

"  Are  you  better  for  the  sleep,  Ida?"  he  asked,  taking 
the  hand  she  had  extended. 


252  THE  UNCLASSED 

"  Much  ;  much  better.     How  the  sun  shines  ! " 

"Yes,  it's  a  fine  day.  Don't  you  think  you  could  go  out 
a  little  1  " 

"  I  think  I  should  like  to,  but  I  can't  walk  very  fur,  I'm 
afraid." 

"  You  needn't  walk  at  all,  my  dear.  Your  carriage  shall 
be  here  whenever  you  like  to  order  it." 

"My  carriage?" 

The  exclamation  was  like  a  child's  pleased  wonder.  She 
coloured  a  little,  niid  seemed  ashamed. 

"  How  is  Mr.  Waymark  1 "  was  her  next  question. 

"  Nothing  much  amiss  now,  I  think.  His  eyes  are  painful, 
he  says,  and  he  mustn't  leave  the  room  yet,  but  it  won't  last 
much  longer.     Shall  we  go  together  and  see  him  1 " 

She  hesitated,  but  decided  to  wait  till  he  could  come  down. 

"But  you'll  go  out,  Ida,  if  I  order  the  carriage?" 

"Thank  you,  I  should  like  to." 

That  first  drive  had  been  to  Ida  a  jo,^^ unspeakable.  To-day 
for  the  first  time  she  was  able  to  swee})  her  mind  clear  of 
the  dread  shadow  of  brooding,  and  give  herself  up  to  simple 
enjoyment  of  the  hour. 

Abraham  went  and  told  Waymark  of  all  this  as  soon  as 
they  got  back.  In  the  exuberance  of  his  spirits  he  was  half 
angry  with  the  invalid  for  beiug  gloomy.  Waymark  had  by 
this  time  shaken  otf  aU  effects  of  his  disagreeable  adventure, 
with  the  exception  of  a  weakness  of  the  eyes ;  but  conva- 
lescence did  not  work  upon  him  as  in  Ida's  case.  He  was 
morose,  often  apparently  sunk  in  hopeless  wretchedness. 
When  Abraham  spoke  to  him  of  Ida,  he  could  scarcely  be 
got  to  reply.  Above  all,  he  showed  an  extreme  impatience 
to  recover  his  health  and  go  back  to  the  ordinary  life. 

"  I  shall  be  able  to  go  for  the  rents  next  Monday,"  he 
said  to  Mr.  Woodstock  one  day. 

"I  shoidd  have  thought  you'd  had  enough  of  that.  I've 
found  another  man  for  the  job." 

"  Then  what  on  earth  am  I  to  do  ? "  Waymark  exclaimed 
impatiently.  "  How  am  I  to  get  my  living  if  you  take  that 
work  away  from  me  ? " 

"  Never  mind  ;  we'll  find  something,"  Abraham  returned. 
"  Why  are  you  in  such  a  hurry  to  get  away,  I  should  like 
to  know?' 

"Simply  because  I  can't  always  live  here,  and  I  hate 
uncertainly." 


NEW  PROSPECTS  253 

There  was  something  in  the  young  man's  behaviour  wliich 
puzzled  Mr.  Woodstock ;  but  the  key  to  the  puzzle  was  very 
shortly  given  him.  On  the  evening  of  the  same  day  he  pre- 
sented himself  once  more  in  Waymark's  room.  The  latter 
could  not  see  him,  but  the  first  sound  of  his  voice  was  a 
warning  of  trouble, 

"  Do  you  feel  able  to  talk  1 "  Abraham  asked,  rather  gruffly. 

"Yes.     Why?" 

"Because  I  want  to  ask  you  a  few  questions.  I've  just 
had  a  call  from  that  friend  of  yours,  Mr.  Enderby,  and  some- 
thing came  out  in  talk  that  I  wasn't  exactly  prepared  for." 

Waymark  rose  from  his  chair. 

"  Why  didn't  you  tell  me,"  pursued  Mr.  Woodstock,  "  that 
you  were  engaged  to  his  daughter  ? " 

"I  scarcely  thought  it  necessary." 

"Not  when  I  told  you  who  Ida  was?" 

This  disclosure  had  been  made  whilst  Waymark  was  still 
confined  to  his  bed  ;  partly  because  Abraham  had  a  difficulty 
in  keeping  the  matter  to  himself,  partly  because  he  thought 
it  might  help  the  other  through  his  illness.  Waymark  had 
said  very  little  at  the  time,  and  there  had  been  no  conversa- 
tion on  the  matter  between  them  since. 

"I  don't  see  that  it  made  any  difl"erence,"  Waymark 
replied  gloomily. 

The  old  man  was  silent.  He  had  been,  it  seemed,  under 
a  complete  delusion,  and  could  not  immediately  make  up  his 
mind  whether  he  had  indeed  ground  of  complaint  against 
Waymark. 

"Why  did  Mr.  Enderby  call?"  the  latter  inquired. 

"  Very  natural'ly,  it  seems  to  me,  to  know  what  had  be- 
come of  you.  He  didn't  see  the  report  in  the  paper,  and 
went  searching  for  you." 

"  Docs  Ida  know  of  this?"  he  asked,  after  a  pause,  during 
which  Waymark  had  remained  standing  with  his  arms 
crossed  on  the  back  of  the  chair. 

"  I  have  never  told  her.  Why  should  I  have  done  1 
Perhaps  now  you  will  believe  what  I  iusioted  upon  before 
the  tiial,  that  there  had  been  nothing  whatever " 

He  sp(jke  irritably,  and  was  interrupted  by  the  other  with 
yet  more  irritation. 

"Kever  mention  that  again  to  me  as  long  as  you  live, 
Waymark  !     If  you  do,  we  shall  quarrel,  understand  !" 
"I  have  no  more  pleasure  in  referring  to  it  than  ycai 


354 


THE  UNCLASSED 


have,"  said  Waymark,  more  calmly ;   "  but  I  must  justify 
myself  when  you  attack  me." 

"  How  long  has  this  been  going  on  ? "  asked  the  other, 
after  a  silence. 

*'  Some  three  months — perhaps  more," 

"  Well,  I  think  it  would  have  been  better  if  you'd  been 
straightforward  about  it,  that's  all.  I  don't  know  that  I've 
anything  more  to  say.  We  know  what  we're  about,  and 
there's  an  end  of  it." 

So  saying,  the  old  man  went  out  of  the  room.  There  was 
a  difference  in  him  henceforth,  something  which  Ida  noticed, 
though  she  could  not  explain  it.  On  the  following  day  he 
spoke  with  her  on  a  matter  she  was  surprised  to  hear  him 
mention,  her  education.  He  had  been  thinking,  he  said, 
that  she  ought  to  learn  to  play  the  piano,  and  be  taught 
foreign  languages.  Wouldn't  she  like  him  to  find  some  lady 
who  could  live  in  the  house  and  teach  her  all  these  things  ? 
Ida's  thoughts  at  once  ran  to  the  conclusion  that  this  had 
been  suggested  by  Waymark,  and,  when  she  found  that  her 
grandfather  really  wished  it,  gave  a  ready  assent.  A  week 
or  two  later  the  suitable  person  had  been  discovered — a  lady 
of  some  thirty  years  of  age,  by  name  Miss  Hurst.  She  was 
agreeable  and  refined,  endowed,  moreover,  with  the  tact  which 
was  desirable  in  one  undertaking  an  office  such  as  this.  Ida 
found  her  companionship  pleasant,  and  Mr.  Woodstock  con- 
gratulated himself  on  having  taken  the  right  step. 

At  the  same  time  that  the  governess  came  to  the  house, 
Waymark  left  it.  He  returned  to  his  old  lodgings,  and, 
with  an  independence  which  was  partly  his  own  impulse, 
partly  the  natural  result  of  the  slight  coolness  towards  him 
which  had  shown  itself  in  Mr.  Woodstock,  set  to  work  to 
find  a  means  of  earning  his  living.  This  he  was  fortunate 
enough  to  discover  without  any  great  delay ;  he  obtained  a 
place  as  assistant  in  a  circulating  library.  The  payment  was 
small,  but  he  still  had  his  evenings  free. 

Ida  did  not  conceal  her  disappointment  when  Abraham 
conveyed  this  news  to  her ;  she  had  been  hoping  for  better 
things.  Her  intercourse  with  Waymark  between  his  recovery 
and  his  leaving  the  house  had  been  difficult,  full  of  evident 
c<mstraint  on  both  sides.  It  was  the  desire  of  both  not  to 
meet  alone,  and  in  Mr.  Woodstock's  presence  they  talked  of 
indifferent  things,  with  an  artificiality  which  it  was  difficult 
to  support,  yet  impossible  to  abandon.     They  shunned  each 


NEW  PROSPECTS  255 

other's  eyes.  Waymark  was  even  less  at  his  ease  than  Ida, 
knowing  that  Mr.  Woodstock  ohserved  him  closely  at  all 
times.  With  her  grandfather  Ida  tried  to  speak  freely  of 
their  friend,  hut  she  too  was  trouhled  by  the  consciousness 
that  the  old  man  did  not  seem  as  friendly  to  Waymark  as 
formerly. 

"  This  will  of  course  only  he  for  a  time  ? "  she  said,  when 
told  of  Waymark's  new  employment. 

"I  don't  know,"  Abraham  replied  indifferently.  "I 
should  think  it  will  suit  him  as  well  as  anything  else." 

"  But  he  is  clever  ;  he  writes  books.  Don't  you  think  he 
will  make  himself  known  some  day  ?  "  , 

"That  kind  of  thing  isn't  much  to  be  depended  on,  it 
seems  to  me.  It's  a  doubtful  business  to  look  forward  to  for 
a  living." 

Ida  kept  silence  on  the  subject  after  that.     She  did  not 
seem  to  brood  any  longer  over  sad  thoughts,  yet  it  was  seldom 
she    behaved    or    spoke    light-heartedly ;    her    face   often 
indicated  an  absent  mind,  but  it  was  the  calm  musing  of 
one  whose  thoughts  look  to  the  future  and  strengthen  them- 
selves with  hope.     Times  there  were  when  she  drew  away 
into  solitude,  and  these  were  the  intervals  of  doubt  and  self- 
questioning.     With   her   grandfather   she   was   reconciled ; 
she  had  become  convinced  of  his  kindness  to  her,  and  the 
far-off  past   was  now  seldom   in  her  mind.     The  trouble 
originated  in  the  deepest  workings  of  her  nature.     When 
she  found  herself  comparing  her  position  now  Avith  that  of 
former  days,  it  excited  in  her  a  restive  mood  to  think  that 
chance  alone  had  thus  raised  her  out  of  misery,  that  the 
conscious  strength  and  purity  of  her  soul  would  never  have 
availed  to  help  her  to  the  things  which  were  now  within  her 
grasp.     The  old  sense  of  the  world's  injustice  excited  anger 
and  revolt  in  her  heart.     Chance,  chance  alone  befriended 
her,  and  the  reflection  injured  her  pride.     What  of  those 
numberless  struggling  creatures  to  whom  such  hai)py  fortune 
could  never  come,  who,  be  their  aspirations  and  capabilities 
what  they  might,  must  struggle  vainly,  agonise,  and  in  the 
end  despair  1     She  had  been  lifted  out  of  holl,  not  risen 
therefrom  by  her  own  strength.     Sometimes  it  half  seemed 
to  her  that  it  would  have  been  the  nobler  lot  to  remain  as 
she  was,  to  share  the  misery  of  that  dread  realm  of  darkness 
with  those  poor  disinherited  ones,  to  cherish  that  spirit  of 
noble  rehelhon,  the  consciousness  of  which  had  been  as  a 


256  THE  UNCLASSED 

pure  fire  on  the  altar  of  her  being.  What  was  to  be  her 
future  1  Would  she  insensibly  forget  her  past  self,  let  her 
strength  subside  in  refinement — it  might  be,  even  lose  the 
passion  which  had  made  her  what  she  was  ? 

But  hope  predominated.  Forget !  Could  she  ever  forget 
those  faces  in  the  slums  on  the  day  when  she  bade  farewell 
to  poverty  and  all  its  attendant  wretchedness  1  Litany  Lane 
and  Elm  Court  were  names  which  already  symbolised  a 
purpose.  If  ever  she  still  looked  at  her  grandfather  with  a 
remnant  of  distrust,  it  was  because  she  thought  of  him  as 
drawing  money  from  such  a  source,  enjoying  his  life  of  ease 
in  disregard  of  the  responsibilities  laid  upon  him.  The  day 
would  come  when  she  could  find  courage  to  speak  to  him. 
She  waited  and  prepared  herself. 

Prepared  herself,  for  that,  and  for  so  much  else.  Waymark's 
behaviour  would  have  cost  her  the  bitterest  misery,  had  she 
not  been  able  to  explain  it  to  her  own  satisfaction.  There 
could  be  but  one  reason  why  he  held  aloof  from  her,  and 
that  an  all-sufficient  one.  In  her  new  position,  it  was 
impossible  for  him  to  be  more  than  just  friendly  to  her. 
If  that  had  been  his  attitude  in  the  old  days,  how  could  his 
self-respect  allow  him  to  show  the  slightest  change  1  In  his 
anxiety  not  to  do  so,  he  had  even  fallen  short  of  the  former 
kindness.  No  forgiveness  was  needed,  when  she  felt  that 
.she  understood  him  so  well.  But  all  the  more  did  it  behove 
her  to  make  herself  worthy  of  him  in  all  things.  She  had 
still  so  much  to  learn ;  she  was  so  far  his  inferior  in  culture 
and  understanding.  Her  studies  with  Miss  Hurst  were 
fruitful.  Not  were  her  domestic  duties  forgotten.  Mr. 
Woodstock  had  supplied  her  with  a  good  housekeeper,  to 
help  her  inexperience,  but  Ida  took  an  adequate  burden  on 
her  own  shoulders.     This  again  was  a  new  and  keen  joy. 

Waymark  dined  with  them  one  Sunday  in  June,  and, 
in  the  course  of  the  evening,  went  with  Abraham  to  the 
smoking-room  for  some  private  conversation. 

"Do  you  remember,"  he  began,  "once  offering  to  buy 
those  shares  of  mine?" 

"Yes,  I  do,"  replied  Mr.  Woodstock,  narrowing  his  eyes. 

"  Does  the  offer  still  hold  good  ? " 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  if  you're  anxious  to  realise." 

"  I  am.     I  want  money — for  two  purposes." 

"  What  are  they  ? "  Abraham  asked  bluntly. 


NEW  PROSPECTS  257 

"  One  is  a  private  matter,  which  I  don'u  think  I  need  speak 
of ;  but  the  other  I  can  explain.  I  have  found  a  courngeous 
publisher  who  has  ofl'ered  to  bring  my  book  out  if  I  take  a 
certain  risk.  This  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  do.  I  want 
to  get  the  thing  out,  if  only  for  the  sake  of  hearing  Mva. 
Grundy  lift  up  her  voice ;  and  if  it  can't  be  otherwise,  I  must 
publish  at  my  own  expense." 

"  Will  it  repay  you  1 "  Mr.  Woodstock  asked. 

"  Ultimately,  I  have  no  doubt ;  but  I  don't  care  so  much 
about  that." 

"  H'm.  I  should  think  that's  the  chief  matter  to  be  con- 
sidered.  And  you  won't  tell  me  what  the  other  speculation  is?" 

"  I'm  going  to  lend  a  friend  some  money,  but  I  don't  wish 
to  go  into  detail." 

The  old  man  looked  at  him  shrewdly. 

"Very  well,"  he  .said  presently.  "I'll  let  you  have  the 
cash.  Could  you  manage  to  look  in  at  the  ofiice  to-morrow 
at  mid-day  ] " 

This  was  arranged,  and  Waymark  rose,  but  Mr.  Woodstock 
motioned  to  him  to  resume  his  seat. 

"  As  we're  talking,"  he  began,  "  I  may  as  well  have  over 
something  that's  on  my  mind.  Why  haven't  you  told  Ida 
yet  about  that  engagement  of  yours?" 

"Haven't  ynu  done  so?"  Waymark  asked,  in  surprise. 

"Did  you  think  I  had?" 

"Why,  yes,  I  did." 

"  I've  done  nothing  of  the  kind,"  Abraham  returned,  pre- 
tending to  be  surprised  at  the  supi)osition,  though  he  knew 
it  was  a  perfectly  natriral  one. 

Waymark  was  silent. 

"Don't  you  think,"  the  other  pursued,  "it's  about  time 
something  was  said  to  her?" 

"I  can't  see  that  it  matters,  and " 

"  P)Ut  I  can  see.  As  long  as  that  isn't  known  you're  here, 
to  speak  plainly,  on  false  pretences." 

"  Then  I  won't  come  here  at  all ! " 

"Very  good,"  exclaimed  the  old  man  irritably,  "so  long 
as  you  explain  to  her  first." 

Waymark  turned  away,  and  stood  gazing  gloomily  at  the 
floor.  Abraham  regarded  him,  and  a  change  came  over  his 
hard  face. 

"  Now,  look  here,"  he  said,  "  there's  something  in  all  this 
I  can't  make  out.     Is  this  engagement  a  serious  one  1 " 

B 


253  THE  UNCLASSED 

"  Serious  ? "  returned  the  other,  with  a  look  of  misery. 
"  How  can  it  be  otherwise  1 " 

"  Very  well ;  in  that  case  you're  bound  to  let  Ida  know 
about  it,  and  at  once.  Damn  it  all,  don't  you  know  your 
own  mind?" 

Waymark  collected  himself,  and  spoke  gravely. 

"  I,  of  course,  understand  why  you  press  so  for  this  expla- 
nation. You  take  it  for  granted  that  Ida  regards  me  as 
something  more  than  a  friend.  If  so,  my  manner  since  she 
has  been  here  must  have  clearly  shown  her  that,  on  my  side, 
1  have  not  the  least  thought  of  offering  more  than  friendship. 
You  yourself  will  grant  so  much,  I  believe.  For  all  that,  I 
don't  deny  that  our  relations  have  always  been  unusual;  and 
it  would  cost  me  very  much  to  tell  her  of  my  engagement. 
I  ask  you  to  relieve  me  of  the  painful  task,  on  the  under- 
standing that  I  never  come  here  again.  I  can't  make  you 
understand  my  position.  You  say  my  behaviour  has  not 
been  straightforward.  In  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  word  it 
has  not ; — there  let  it  rest.  Tell  Ida  what  you  will  of  me, 
and  let  me  disappear  from  her  world." 

"The  plain  English  of  all  which,"  cried  Abraham  angrily, 
"is,  that,  as  far  as  you  are  concerned,  you  would  be  quite 
willing  to  let  the  girl  live  on  false  hopes,  just  to  have  the 
pleasure  of  her  society  as  long  as  you  care  for  it." 
-  "  Not  so,  not  so  at  all !  I  value  Ida's  friendship  as  I  value 
that  of  no  other  woman,  and  I  am  persuaded  that,  if  I  were 
free  with  her,  I  could  reconcile  her  entirely  to  our  connection 
remaining  one  of  friendship,  and  nothing  more." 

Waymark,  in  his  desperate  straits,  all  but  persuaded  him- 
self that  he  told  the  truth.  Mr.  Woodstock  gazed  at  him  in 
doubt.  He  would  give  him  to  the  end  of  July  to  make  up 
his  mind  ;  by  that  time  Waymark  must  either  present  him- 
self as  a  free  man,  or  allow  Ida  to  be  informed  of  his  position. 
In  the  meanwhile  he  must  come  to  Tottenham  not  of  tener  than 
once  a  week.     To  this  Waymark  agreed,  glad  of  any  respite. 

He  returned  to  his  lod^'ings  in  a  state  of  nervous  misery. 
Fortunately,  he  was  not  left  to  his  thoughts ;  in  a  few  minutes 
a  knock  at  his  door  announced  a  visitor  in  the  person  of  Mr. 
O'Gree.  The  Irishman  exhibited  his  wonted  liveliness,  and 
at  once  began  to  relate  an  incident  to  the  disadvantage  of  his 
arch-enemy. 

"  Faith,"  he  cried,  "  I'd  have  given  a  trifle  if  ye  could  have 
heard  the  conversation  between  Tootle  and  me,  just  after 


NEW  PROSPECTS  259 

breakfast  yesterday.  The  boys  were  filing  out  of  the  room, 
when,  'Mr.  O'Gree!'  cries  Pendy. — 'Sir!'  I  reply. — 'The 
boys  were  called  late  this  morning,  I  hear.' — 'No  such  thing, 
sir,'  I  assure  'um.  '  Half-past  six  to  the  minute,  by  my  watch.' 
— '  Oh,  your  watch,  Mr.  O'Gree,'  cries  the  old  reprobate.  '  I 
fear  your  watch  doesn't  keep  very  good  time.' — *  Sure,  you're 
in  the  right,  sir,'  said  I ;  '  it's  been  losing  a  little  of  late ;  so 
only  last  night  I  stopped  it  at  half-past  six,  to  make  sure  it 
would  show  me  the  right  calling-time  this  morning.'  And, 
when  I'd  said  that,  I  just  nod  my  head,  as  much  as  to  say, 
*  There's  one  for  ye,  me  boy  1 '  and  walk  off  as  jaunty  as  a 
Limerick  bantam." 

Then,  after  a  burst  of  merriment,  O'Gree  suddenly  fixed 
his  face  in  a  very  grave  expression. 

"  I'm  resolved,  Waymark,  I'm  resolved  ! "  he  exclaimed. 
"  At  midsummer  I  break  my  chains,  and  stand  erect  in  the 
dignity  of  a  free  man.  I've  said  it  often,  but  now  I  mean 
it.  Sally  urges  me  to  do  ut,  and  Sally  never  utters  a  worrud 
that  isn't  pure  wisdom." 

"  AVell,  I  think  she's  right.  I  myself  should  prefer  a 
scavenger's  existence,  on  the  whole.  But  have  you  thought 
any  further  of  the  other  scheme  ? '' 

"  The  commercial  undertaking?  We  were  talking  it  over 
the  other  night.  Sally  says  :  Borrow  the  money  and  risk  ut. 
And  I  think  she's  in  the  right.  If  you  enter  the  world  of 
commerce,  you  must  be  prepared  for  speculation.  We  looked 
over  the  advertisements  in  a  newspaper,  just  to  get  an  idea, 
and  we  calculated  the  concern  could  be  set  afloat  for  seventy- 
five  pounds.  Out  of  that  we  could  pay  a  quarter's  rent,  and 
stock  the  shop.  Sally's  been  behind  the  counter  a  good  bit 
of  late,  and  she's  getting  an  insight  into  that  kind  of  thing. 
Wonderful  girl,  Sally !  Put  her  in  Downing  Street  for  a 
week,  and  she'd  be  competent  to  supplant  the  Premier ! " 

"  You  have  decided  for  a  chandler's  ? " 

"  Yes ;  we  neither  of  us  know  much  about  tobacco,  and 
tobacco  perhaps  isn't  quite  the  thing  for  a  man  of  education. 
But  to  be  a  chandler  is  something  worthy  of  any  man's 
ambition.  You  supply  at  once  the  solids  and  the  luxuries 
of  life ;  you  range  from  boiled  ham  and  pickles  to  mixed 
biscuits  and  preserves.  You  are  the  focus  of  a  whole  street. 
The  father  comes  to  you  for  his  mid-day  bread  and  cheese, 
the  mother  for  her  half-ounce  of  tea,  the  child  for  its 
farthing's-worth  of  sweets.     For  years  I've  been  leading  a 


26o  THE  UNCLASSED 

useless  life ;  once  let  me  get  into  my  shop,  and  I  become  a 
column  of  the  social  system.     I'aith,  it's  as  good  as  done  !" 

"  From  whom  shall  you  borrow  tlie  cash  ?" 

"  Sally's  going  to  think  about  that  point.  I  suppose  we 
shall  go  to  a  loan  office,  and  make  some  kind  of  arrangement. 
I'm  rather  vague  on  these  things,  but  Sally  will  (ind  it  out." 

"  I  understand,"  said  Waymark,  chocking  his  amusement, 
"  that  you  are  perfectly  serious  in  this  plan  ? " 

"  As  serious  as  I  was  in  the  moment  of  my  birth !  There's 
no  other  chance." 

"  Very  well,  then,  suppose  I  offer  to  lend  you  the  money." 

"You,  Waymark?" 

"  No  less  a  person." 

And  he  went  on  to  explain  how  it  was  that  he  was  able 
to  make  the  offer,  adding  that  any  sum  up  to  a  hundred 
pounds  was  at  his  friend's  disposal. 

"  Ye  mean  it,  Waymark  !  "  cried  O'Gree,  leaping  round  the 
room  in  ecstasy.  "Bedad,  you  are  a  man  and  a  brother,  and 
no  mistake !  Ye're  the  first  that  ever  offered  to  lend  me  a 
penny  ;  ye're  the  first  that  ever  had  faith  in  me  !  You  shall 
come  with  me  to  see  Sally  on  Saturday,  and  tell  her  this  your- 
self, and  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  she  gives  you  a  kiss  ! " 

O'Gree  exhausted  himself  in  capering  and  vociferation, 
then  sat  down  and  began  to  exercise  his  luxuriant  imagina- 
tion in  picturing  unheard-of  prosperity. 

"We'll  take  a  shop  in  a  new  neighbourhood,  where  we 
shall  have  the  monopoly.  The  people  '11  get  to  know  Sally ; 
she'll  be  like  a  magnet  behind  the  counter.  I  shall  go  to 
the  wholesale  houses,  and  impress  them  with  a  sense  of  my 
financial  stability  ;  I  flatter  myself  I  shall  look  the  prosperous 
shopkeeper,  eh  ?  Who  knows  what  we  may  come  to  ?  Why, 
in  a  few  years  we  may  transfer  our  business  to  Oxford  Street 
or  Piccadilly,  and  call  ourselves  Italian  warehousemen  ;  and 
bedad,  we'll  turn  out  in  the  end  another  Crosse  and  Black- 
well,  see  if  we  don't !  " 

At  the  utmost  limit  of  the  time  allowed  him  by  the  rules 
of  The  Academy,  the  future  man  of  business  took  his  leave, 
in  spirits  extravagant  even  for  him. 

"  Faith,"  he  exclaimed,  when  he  was  already  at  the  door, 
"  who  d'ye  think  I  saw  last  Sunday  1  As  I  was  free  in  the 
afternoon,  I  took  a  walk,  and,  coming  back,  I  went  into  a 
little  coffee  shop  for  a  cup  of  tea.  A  man  in  an  apron  came 
up  to  serve  me,  and,  by  me  soul,  if  it  wasn't  poor  old  Egger  ! 


A  VISION  OF  SIN  261 

I've  heard  not  a  word  of  him  since  he  left  last  Christmas. 
He  was  ashamed  of  himself,  poor  devil ;  but  I  did  my  best 
to  malce  him  easy.  After  all,  he's  better  off  than  in  the 
Bcholastic  line." 

Waymark  laughed  at  this  incident,  and  stood  watching 
O'Gree's  progress  down  the  street  for  a  minute  or  two. 
Then  he  went  to  his  room  again,  and  sitting  down  with  a 
sigh,  fell  into  deep  brooding. 


CHAPTEK   XXXII 

A  VISION   OF  SIN 

Maud  Enderby's  life  at  home  became  ever  more  solitary. 
Such  daily  intercourse  as  had  been  established  between  her 
mother  and  herself  grew  less  and  less  fruitful  of  real  intimacy, 
till  at  length  it  was  felt  by  both  to  be  mere  form.  Maud 
strove  against  this,  but  there  was  no  corresponding  effort 
on  the  other  side ;  Mrs.  Enderby  showed  no  dislike  for  her 
daughter,  yet  unmistakably  shunned  her.  If  she  chanced  to 
enter  the  sitting-room  whilst  Maud  was  there,  she  would,  if 
possible,  retreat  unobserved ;  or  else  she  would  feign  to  have 
come  in  quest  of  something,  and  at  once  go  away  with  it. 
INIaud  could  not  fail  to  observe  this,  and  its  recurrence  struck 
a  chill  to  her  heart.  She  had  not  the  courage  to  speak  to 
her  mother ;  a  deadweight  of  trouble,  a  restless  spirit  of 
apprehension,  made  her  life  one  of  passive  endurance ;  she 
feared  to  have  the  unnatural  conditions  of  their  home  openly 
recognised.  Very  often  her  thoughts  turned  to  the  time 
when  she  had  found  refuge  from  herself  in  the  daily  occupa- 
tion of  teaching,  and,  had  she  dared,  she  would  gladly  have 
gone  away  once  more  as  a  governess.  But  she  could  not 
bring  herself  to  propose  such  a  step.  To  do  so  would  necessi- 
tate explanations,  and  that  was  what  she  dreaded  most  of  all. 
Whole  days,  with  the  exception  of  meal-times,  she  spent  in 
her  own  room,  and  there  no  one  ever  disturbed  her.  Some- 
times she  read,  but  most  often  sat  in  prolonged  brooding, 
heedless  of  the  hours. 

Her  father  was  now  constantly  away  from  home.  He  told 
her  that  he  travelled  on  business.  It  scarcely  seemed  to  be 
a  relief  to  him  to  rest  awhile  in  his  chair  :  indeed,  Paul  had 
grown  incapable  of  resting.     Time  was  deepening  the  lines 


262  THE  UNCLASSED 

of  anxiety  on  liis  sallow  face.  His  mind  seemed  for  ever 
racked  with  painful  calculation.  Mrs.  Enderby,  too,  spent 
much  time  away  from  the  house,  and  Maud  knew  nothing  of 
her  engagements.  One  thing,  however,  Maud  could  not  help 
noticing,  and  that  was  that  her  mother  was  clearly  very  extra- 
vagant in  her  mode  of  living.  New  and  costly  dresses  were 
constantly  being  purchased,  as  well  as  articles  of  luxury  for 
the  house.  Mrs.  Enderby  had  of  late  provided  herself  with 
a/emme  de  chamhre,  a  young  woman  who  arrayed  herself 
Avith  magnificence  in  her  mistresses  cast-off  dresses,  and 
whose  appearance  and  demeanour  had  something  the  reverse 
of  domestic.  Maud  almost  feared  her.  Then  there  was  a 
hired  brougham  constantly  in  use.  Whenever  Mrs.  P^nderby 
spent  an  evening  at  home,  company  was  sure  to  be  enter- 
tained ;  noisy  and  showy  people  filled  the  drawing-room,  and 
remained  till  late  hours.  Maud  (li'l  not  even  see  their  faces, 
but  the  voices  of  one  or  two  men  and  women  became  only 
too  familiar  to  her;  even  in  the  retirement  of  her  room  she 
could  not  avoid  hearing  these  voices,  and  they  made  her 
shudder.  Especially  she  was  conscious  of  Mr.  Rudge's 
presence ;  she  knew  his  very  step  on  the  stairs,  and  waited 
in  feverish  apprehension  for  the  first  notes  of  an  accompani- 
ment on  the  piano,  which  warned  her  that  he  was  going  to 
sing.  He  hud  a  good  voice,  and  it  was  often  in  request. 
Sometimes  the  inexplicable  dread  of  his  singing  was  more 
than  she  could  bear ;  she  would  hurry  on  her  walking-attire, 
and,  stealing  like  a  shadow  down  the  stairs,  would  seek 
refuge  in  pacing  about  the  streets  of  the  neighbourhood, 
heedless  of  weather  or  the  hour. 

Mrs.  Enderby  never  came  down  to  breakfast.  One  morn- 
ing, when  Paul  happened  to  be  at  home,  he  and  Maud  had 
finished  that  meal  in  silence,  and  ]\Iaud  was  rising  to  leave 
the  room,  when  her  father  checked  her.  He  leaned  over  the 
table  towards  her,  and  spoke  in  an  anxious  undertone. 

"Have  you  noticed  anything  a  little — a  little  strange  in 
your  mother  lately,  Maud?  Anything  in  her  way  of  speak- 
ing, I  mean — her  general  manner  1 " 

The  girl  met  his  look,  and  shook  her  head.  The  approach 
to  sucli  a  conversation  affected  her  as  with  a  shock;  she 
could  not  speak. 

"She  has  very  bad  nights,  you  know,"  Paul  went  on,  still 
in  a  tone  just  above  a  whisper,  "and  of  late  she  has  been 
taking  chloral.    It's  against  my  wish,  but  the  relief  makes  it 


A  VISION   OF  SIN  263 

an  irresistible  temptation.  I  fear — I  am  afraid  it  is  having 
some  deleterious  effect  upon  her ;  she  seemed  td  be  a  little — 
just  a  little  delirious  in  the  night,  I  thought." 

There  was  something  horrible  in  his  voice  and  face  as  he 
uttered  these  words ;  he  shuddered  slightly,  and  his  tongue 
seemed  to  labour  for  utterance,  as  though  he  dreaded  the 
sound  of  his  own  speech. 

Maud  sat  unmoving  and  silent. 

"  I  thouglit,  also,"  Paul  went  on,  "  that  she  appeared  a 
little  strange  last  evening,  when  the  people  were  here. — You 
weren't  in  the  drawing-room  1 " 

IMaud  shook  her  head  arrain. 

"Do  you — do  you  think,"  he  asked,  "she  is  having  too 
much  excitement?  I  know  she  needs  a  life  of  constant 
variety ;  it  .is  essential  to  her.  I'm  sure  you  understand 
that,  Maud?     You — you  don't  misjudge  her?" 

"  No,  no  ;  it  is  necessary  to  her,"  said  the  girl  mechanically. 

"But,"  her  father  pursued,  with  still  lower  voice,  "there 
is  always  the  danger  lest  she  should  over-exert  herself.  Last 
night  I — I  thought  I  noticed — but  it  was  scarcely  worth 
speaking  of ;  I  am  so  easily  alarmed,  you  know." 

!Maud  tried  to  say  something,  but  in  vain. 

"You — you  won't  desert  her — quite — Maud?"  said  her 
father  in  a  tone  of  pleading.  "  I  am  obliged  to  be  so  much 
away — God  knows  I  can't  help  it.  And  then  I — I  wonder 
whether  you  have  noticed?  I  seem  to  have  little  influence 
with  her." 

He  stojiped,  but  the  next  moment  forced  himself  to  utter 
what  was  in  his  mind. 

"Can't  you  help  me  a  little  more,  Maud?  Couldn't  you 
induce  her  to  live  a  little  more — more  restfully  at  times  1 " 

She  rose,  pushing  the  chair  back  behind  her. 

"  Father,  I  can't !  "  she  cried  ;  then  burst  into  a  passion 
of  tears; 

"  God  help  us  ! "  her  father  breathed,  rising  and  looking 
at  her  in  blank  misery.  But  in  a  moment  she  had  recovered 
herself.  They  faced  each  other  for  an  instant,  but  neither 
ventured  to  speak  again,  and  Maud  turned  and  left  him. 

Waymark  came  as  usual,  but  now  he  seldom  saw  Mrs. 
Enderby.  Maud  received  him  alone.  There  was  little  that 
was  lover-like  in  these  hours  spent  together.  They  kissed 
each  other  at  meeting  and  parting,  but,  with  this  exception^ 


264  THE  UNCLASSED 

the  maimer  of  both  wtis  very  slightly  different  from  what  it 
had  been  before  their  engagement.  They  sat  apart,  and 
talked  of  art,  literature,  religion,  seldom  of  each  other.  It 
had  come  to  this  by  degrees ;  at  first  there  had  been  more 
warmth,  but  passion  never.  Waymark's  self-consciousness 
often  weighed  upon  his  tongue,  and  made  his  conversation 
but  a  string  of  commonplaces ;  Maud  was  often  silent  for 
louL,'  intervals.     Their  eyes  never  met  in  a  steady  gaze. 

Waymark  often  asked  himself  whether  Maud's  was  a 
passionless  nature,  or  whether  it  was  possible  that  her  reserve 
had  the  same  origin  as  his  own.  The  latter  he  felt  to  be 
unlikely;  sometimes  there  was  a  pressure  of  her  hands  as 
their  lips  just  touched,  the  indication,  he  believed,  of  feeling 
held  iu  restraint  for  uncertain  reasons.  She  welcomed  him, 
too,  with  a  look  which  he  in  vain  endeavoured  to  respond  to 
— a  look  of  sudden  relief  from  weariness,  of  gentle  illumina- 
tion ;  it  smote  him  like  a  reproach.  When  the  summer  had 
set  in.  he  was  glad  to  change  the  still  room  for  the  open  air ; 
they  walked  frequently  about  Regent's  Park,  and  lingered 
till  after  sunset. 

One  evening,  when  it  was  dull  and  threatened  rain,  they 
returned  to  the  house  sooner  than  usual.  Waymark  would 
have  taken  his  leave  at  the  door,  as  he  ordinarily  did,  but 
Maud  begged  him  to  enter,  if  only  for  a  few  minutes.  It  was 
not  quite  nine  o'clock,  and  Mrs.  Enderby  was  from  home. 

He  seated  himself,  but  Maud  remained  standing  irreso- 
lutely. Waymark  glanced  at  her  from  under  his  eyebrows. 
He  did  not  tind  it  easy  to  speak ;  they  had  both  been  silent 
since  they  left  the  park,  with  the  exception  of  the  few  words 
exchanged  at  the  door. 

"  Will  you  let  me  sit  here?"  Maud  asked  suddenly,  push- 
ing a  footstool  near  to  his  chair,  and  kneeling  upon  it. 

He  smiled  and  nodded. 

"  When  will  they  begin  the  printing  ?  "  she  asked,  referring 
to  his  book,  which  was  now  in  the  hands  of  the  publisher 
who  had  undertaken  it. 

"  Not  for  some  months.     It  can't  come  out  till  the  winter 


season." 


"  If  it  should  succeed,  it  will  make  a  great  difference  in 
your  position,  won't  it?" 

"  It  might,"  lie  replied,  looking  away. 

She  sat  with  her  eyes  lixed  on  the  ground.  She  wished  to 
continue,  but  something  stayed  her. 


A  VISION  OF  SIN  265 

**  I  don't  much  count  upon  it,"  Wayraark  saiJ,  whon  he 
could  no  longei'  endure  the  silence.  "We  mustn't  bu,.i<;  any 
hopes  on  that." 

He  rose ;  the  need  of  changing  his  attitude  seemed  im- 
perative. 

"Must  you  go?"  Maud  asked,  looking  up  at  him  with 
eyes  which  spoke  all  that  her  voice  failed  to  utter. 

He  moved  his  head  affirmatively,  and  held  out  his  hand 
to  raise  her.  She  obeyed  his  summons,  and  stood  up  before 
him ;  her  eyes  had  lixed  themselves  upon  his ;  he  could  not 
avoid  their  strange  gaze. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said. 

Her  free  hand  rose  to  his  shoulder,  upon  which  it 
scarcely  rested.  He  could  not  escape  her  eyes,  though  to 
meet  them  tortured  him.  Her  lips  were  moving,  but  he 
could  distinguish  no  syllable ;  they  moved  again,  and  he 
could  just  gather  the  sense  of  her  whisper. 

"  Do  you  love  me  ? " 

An  immense  pity  thrilled  through  him.  He  put  his  arm 
about  her,  held  her  closely,  and  pressed  his  lips  against  her 
cheek.  She  reddened,  and  hid  her  face  against  him.  Way- 
mark  touched  her  hair  caressingly,  then  freed  his  other 
hand,  and  went  from  the  room. 

Maud  sat  in  thought  till  a  loud  ring  at  the  door-bell  made 
her  start  and  flee  ui)stairs.  The  room  Ln  which  she  and 
Waymark  sat  when  they  were  by  themselves  was  in  no 
danger  of  invasion,  but  she  feared  the  possibility  of  meeting 
her  mother  to-night.  Her  father  was  away  from  home,  as 
usual,  but  the  days  of  his  return  were  always  uncertain,  and 
Mrs.  Enderby  might  perchance  open  the  door  of  the  little 
sitting-room  just  to  see  whether  he  was  there,  as  it  was  here 
he  ordinarily  employed  himself  when  in  the  house.  From 
her  bedroom  Maud  could  hear  several  people  ascend  the 
stairs.  IL  was  ten  o'clock,  but  an  influx  of  visitors  at  such 
an  h(jur  was  nothing  remarkable.  She  could  hear  her 
mother's  laugh,  and  then  the  voice  of  a  man,  a  voice  she 
knew  but  too  well — that  of  Mr.  Kudge. 

Her  nerves  were  excited.  The  niglifc  was  close,  and  there 
were  mutterings  of  thunder  at  times  ;  the  cloud  whence  they 
came  seemed  to  her  to  spread  its  doleful  blackness  over  this 
one  roof.  An  impulse  seized  lier ;  she  took  paper  and  sat 
down  at  her  desk  to  write.  It  was  a  letter  to  Waymark,  a 
letter  such  as  she  ha<l  never  addressed  to  him,  and  which, 


266  THE  UNCLASSED 

even  in  writing  it,  she  was  conscious  she  could  not  send 
Her  hand  trembled  as  she  filled  the  pages  with  burning 
words.  She  panted  for  more  than  he  had  given  her ;  this 
calm,  half -brotherly  love  of  his  was  just  now  like  a  single 
drop  of  water  to  one  dying  of  thirst ;  she  cried  to  him  for  a 
deeper  draught  of  the  joy  of  life.  The  words  came  to  her 
without  need  of  thought ;  tears  fell  hot  from  her  eyes  and 
blotted  what  she  wrote. 

The  tears  brought  her  relief ;  she  was  able  to  throw  her 
writing  aside,  and  by  degrees  to  resume  that  dull,  vacant 
mood  of  habitual  suffering  which  at  all  events  could  be  en- 
dured. From  this,  too,  there  was  at  times  a  retreat  possible 
with  the  help  of  a  book.  She  had  no  mind  to  sleep,  and  on 
looking  round,  she  remembered  that  the  book  she  had  been 
reading  in  the  early  part  of  the  day  was  downstairs.  It  was 
after  midnight,  and  she  seemed  to  have  a  recollection  of 
hearing  the  visitors  leave  the  house  a  little  while  ago;  it 
would  be  safe  to  venture  as  far  as  the  sitting-room  below. 

She  began  to  descend  the  stairs  quietly.  There  was  still 
a  light  in  the  hall,  but  the  quietness  of  the  house  reassured 
her.  On  turning  an  angle  of  the  stairs,  however,  she  saw 
that  the  door  of  the  drawing-room  was  open,  and  that  just 
within  stood  two  figures — her  mother  and  Mr.  Rudge.  They 
seemed  to  be  whispering  together,  and  in  the  same  moment 
their  lips  met.  Then  the  man  came  out  and  went  downstairs. 
Mrs.  Enderby  turned  back  into  the  drawing-room. 

Maud  stood  fixed  to  the  spot.  Darkness  had  closed  in 
around  her,  and  she  clung  to  the  banisters  to  save  herself 
from  the  gulf  which  seemed  to  yawn  before  her  feet.  The 
ringing  of  a  bell,  the  drawing-room  bell  summoning  Mrs. 
Enderby's  maid,  brought  her  back  to  consciousness,  and  with 
trembling  limbs  she  regained  her  room.  It  was  as  though 
some  ghastly  vision  of  the  night  had  shaken  her  soul.  The 
habit  of  her  mind  overwhelmed  her  with  the  conviction  that 
she  knew  at  last  the  meaning  of  that  mystery  of  horror 
which  had  of  late  been  strengthening  its  hold  upon  her 
imagination.  The  black  cloud  which  lowered  above  the 
house  had  indeed  its  significance ;  the  voices  which  wailed 
to  her  of  sin  and  woe  were  the  true  expression  of  things 
amid  which  she  had  been  moving  unconsciously.  That  in- 
stinct which  made  her  shrink  from  her  mother's  presence 
was  not  without  its  justilication ;  the  dark  powers  which 
circled  her  existence  had  not  vainly  forced  their  influence 


A  VISION  OF  SIN  267 

upon  her.  Her  first  impulse  was  to  flee  from  the  house  ;  the 
air  breathed  pestilence  and  death,  death  of  the  soul.  Look- 
ing about  her  in  the  anguish  of  conflicting  thoughts,  her 
eyes  fell  upon  the  pages  she  had  written.  These  now  came 
before  her  as  a  proof  of  contagion  which  had  seized  upon  her 
own  nature ;  she  tore  the  letter  hastily  into  fragments,  and, 
striking  fire  with  a  match,  consumed  them  in  the  grate.  As 
she  watched  the  sparks  go  out,  there  came  a  rustling  of 
dresses  past  her  door.  She  flung  herself  upon  her  knees 
and  sought  refuge  in  wild,  wordless  prayer. 

A  fortnight  after  this  Maud  went  late  in  the  evening  to 
the  room  where  she  knew  her  father  was  sitting  alono.  Paul 
Enderby  looked  up  from  his  papers  in  surprise ;  it  was  some 
time  since  JMaud  had  sought  private  conversation  with  him. 
As  he  met  her  pale,  resolute  face,  he  knew  that  she  had  a 
serious  purpose  in  thus  visiting  him,  and  his  look  changed 
to  one  of  nervous  anticipation. 

"Do  I  disturb  you,  father?"  Maud  asked.  "Could  you 
spare  me  a  few  minutes?" 

Paul  nodded,  and  she  took  a  seat  near  him. 

"  Father,  I  am  going  to  leave  home,  going  to  be  a  gover- 
ness again." 

He  drew  a  sigh  of  relief ;  he  had  expected  something  worse 
than  this.  Yet  the  relief  was  only  for  a  moment,  and  then 
he  looked  at  her  with  eyes  which  made  her  soul  fail  for  very 
compassion. 

"You  will  desert  me,  Maud?"  he  asked,  trying  to  convey 
in  his  look  that  which  he  could  not  utter  in  words. 

"  Father,  I  can  be  of  no  help,  and  I  feel  that  I  must  not 
remain  here." 

"  Have  you  found  a  place?" 

"This  afternoon  I  engaged  myself  to  go  to  Paris  with  a 
French  family.  They  have  been  in  England  some  time,  and 
want  to  take  back  an  English  governess  for  their  children." 

Paul  was  silent. 

"  I  leave  the  day  after  to-morrow,"  she  added  ;  at  first  she 
had  feared  to  say  how  soon  she  was  to  go. 

"  You  are  right,"  her  father  said,  shifting  some  papers 
about  with  a  tremulous  hand.  "  You  are  right  to  leave  us. 
You  at  least  will  be  safe." 

"Safe?"  she  asked,  under  her  breath. 

He  looked  atherin  the  same  despairing  way,  butsaid  nothing. 


a68  THE  UNCLASSED 

"  Father,"  she  began,  her  lips  quivering  in  the  intensity  of 
her  inward  struggle,  "  can  you  not  go  away  from  here  ?  Can 
you  not  take  mother  away  t " 

They  gazed  at  each  other,  each  trying  to  divine  what  it 
was  that  made  the  other  so  pale.  Did  her  father  know  ? — 
Maud  asked  herself.  Did  Maud  know  something  more  than 
he  himself? — was  the  doubt  in  Paul's  mind.  But  they  were 
thinking  of  difTerent  things. 

"I  can't,  I  can't!"  the  wretched  man  exclaimed,  spread- 
ing out  his  arms  on  the  desk.  "  Perhaps  in  a  few  months — 
but  I  duubt.  I  can  do  nothing  now ;  I  am  helpless  ;  I  am 
not  my  own  master.  0  God,  if  I  could  but  go  and  leave  it 
all  behind  me  !  " 

Maud  could  only  guess  at  the  meaning  of  this.  He  had 
already  hinted  to  her  of  business  troubles  which  were  crush- 
ing him.  But  this  was  a  matter  of  no  moment  in  her  sight. 
There  was  something  more  terrible,  and  she  could  noi  force 
her  tongue  to  speak  of  it. 

"  You  fear  for  her  t "  Paul  went  on.  "  You  have  noticed 
her  strangeness?"  He  lowered  his  voice.  "What  can  I 
do,  Maud?" 

"  You  are  so  much  away,"  she  said  hurriedly,  laying  her 
hand  on  his  arm.  "  Her  visitors — she  has  so  many  tempta- 
tions   " 

"Temptations?" 

"Father,  help  her  against  herself  ! " 

"  My  help  is  vain.  There  is  a  curse  on  her  life,  and  on 
mine.     I  can  only  stand  liy  and  wait  for  the  worst." 

She  could  not  speak.  It  was  her  duty,  clearly  her  im- 
perative duty,  yet  she  durst  not  fidfil  it.  She  had  come 
down  from  her  room  with  the  fixed  purpose,  attained  after 
nights  of  sleepless  struggle,  of  telling  him  what  she  had  seen. 
She  found  herself  alone  again,  the  task  unfulfilled.  And  she 
knew  that  she  could  not  face  him  again. 


CHAPTEE   XXXIII 

A  GARDEN-PA  l.TY 

"Watmark  received  with  astonishment  Maud's  letter  from 
Paris.  He  had  seen  her  only  two  days  before,  and  their 
conversation  had  been  of   the  ordinary  kind;   Maud  had 


A  GARDEN  PARTY  269 

given  him  no  hint  of  her  purpose,  not  even  when  he  spoke 
to  her  of  the  coming  holiday  season,  and  the  necessity  of 
her  having  a  change.  She  confessed  she  was  not  well. 
Sometimes,  when  they  had  both  sat  for  some  minutes  in 
silence,  she  would  raise  her  eyes  and  meet  his  gaze  steadily, 
seeming  to  search  for  something.  Waymark  could  not  face 
this  look  ;  it  drove  him  to  break  the  suspense  by  any  kind 
of  remark  on  an  indifferent  subject.  He  remembered  now 
that  she  had  gazed  at  him  in  that  way  persistently  on  the 
last  evening  that  they  were  together.  When  he  was  saying 
good-bye,  and  as  he  bent  to  kiss  her,  she  held  him  back  for 
a  moment,  and  seemed  to  wish  to  say  something.  Doubtless 
she  had  been  on  the  point  of  telling  him  that  she  was  going 
away ;  but  she  let  him  leave  in  silence. 

It  was  not  a  long  letter  that  she  wrote ;  she  merely  said 
that  change  had  become  indispensable  to  body  and  soul,  and 
that  it  had  seemed  best  to  make  it  suddenly. 

"  I  hope,"  she  wrote  in  conclusion,  "  that  you  will  see  my 
father  as  often  as  you  can ;  he  is  very  much  in  need  of 
friendly  company,  and  I  should  like  you  to  be  able  to  send 
me  news  of  him.  Do  not  fear  for  me ;  I  feel  already 
better.  I  am  always  with  you  in  spirit,  and  in  the  spirit 
I  love  you ;  God  help  me  to  keep  my  love  pure  ! " 

"Waymark  put  away  the  letter  carelessly ;  the  first  sensa- 
tion of  surprise  over,  he  did  not  even  care  to  speculate  on 
the  reasons  which  had  led  Maud  to  leave  home.  It  was 
but  seldom  now  that  his  thoughts  busied  themselves  with 
Maud ;  the  unreal  importance  which  she  had  for  a  time 
assumed  in  his  life  was  only  a  recollection ;  her  very  face 
was  ghostlike  in  his  mind's  eye,  dim,  always  vanishing.  If 
the  news  of  her  departure  from  England  moved  him  at  all, 
it  was  with  a  slight  sense  of  satisfaction ;  it  would  be  so 
much  easier  to  write  letters  to  her  than  to  speak  face  to  face. 
Yet,  in  the  days  that  followed,  the  ghostlike  countenance 
hovered  more  persistently  before  him  than  was  its  wont ; 
there  was  a  far-off  pleading  in  its  look,  and  sometimes  that 
shadow  of  reproach  which  our  uneasy  conscience  wiU  cast 
upon  the  faces  of  those  we  have  wronged.  This  passed, 
however,  and  another  image,  one  which  had  ever  grown  in 
clearness  and  persistency  of  presentment  in  proportion  as 
Maud's  faded  away,  glided  before  him  in  the  hours  of 
summer  sunlight,  and  shone  forth  with  the  beauty  of  a 
rising  star  against  the  clouded  heaven  of  his  dreams. 


27©  THE  UNCLASSED 

"Waymark's  mood  was  bitter,  but,  in  spite  of  himself,  it 
was  no  longer  cynical.  He  could  not  indulge  himself  in 
that  pessimistic  scepticism  which  had  aided  liim  in  bearing 
his  poverty,  and  the  restless  craving  of  sense  and  spirit 
which  had  accompanied  it.  His  enthusiasm  for  art  was 
falling  away ;  as  a  faith  it  had  failed  him  in  his  hour  of 
need.  In  its  stead  another  faith  had  come  to  him,  a  faith 
which  he  felt  to  be  all-powerful,  and  the  sole  stay  of  a  man's 
life  amid  the  shiftijig  shadows  of  intellectual  creeds.  And 
it  had  been  revealed  too  late.  Led  by  perverse  motives, 
now  no  longer  intelligible,  he  had  reached  a  goal  of  mere 
frustration.;  between  him  and  the  true  end  of  his  being 
there  was  a  great  gulf  fixed. 

To  Ida,  in  the  meanwhile,  these  weeks  of  early  summer 
were  bringing  health  of  body  and  cheerfulness  of  mind. 
She  spent  very  much  of  her  time  in  the  open  air.  When- 
ever it  was  possible  she  and  Miss  Hurst  took  their  books 
out  into  the  garden,  antl  let  the  shadows  of  the  rose-bushes 
mark  the  hours  for  them.  Ida's  natural  vigour  throve  on 
the  strength-giving  properties  of  sun  and  breeze ;  the  last 
traces  of  unwholesome  pallor  passed  from  her  face,  and 
exercise  sent  her  home  flu.shed  like  the  dawn. 

One  afternoon  she  went  to  sit  with  her  grandfather  on  a 
bench  beneath  an  apple-tree.  The  old  man  had  his  pipe 
and  a  newspaper.  Ida  was  quiet,  and  glancing  at  her  pre- 
sently, Abraham  found  her  eyes  fixed  upon  him. 

"  Grandfather,"  she  said,  in  her  gentlest  voice,  "  will  you 
let  me  give  a  garden-party  some  day  next  week  ? " 

"  A  party  ? "  Mr.  Woodstock  raised  his  brows  in  astonish- 
ment.    "  Who  are  you  going  to  invite  1" 

"You'll  think  it  a  strange  notion. — I  wonder  whether  I 
can  make  it  seem  as  delightful  to  you  as  it  does  to  me. 
Suppose  we  went  to  those  houses  of  yours,  and  got  together 
as  many  poor  little  girls  as  we  could,  and  brought  them  all 
here  to  spend  an  afternoon  in  the  garden.  Think  what  an 
unheard-of  thing  it  would  be  to  them  !  And  then  we  would 
give  them  some  tea,  and  take  them  back  again  before  dark." 

The  proposal  filled  jNIr.  Woodstock  with  dismay,  and  the 
habitual  hardness  of  his  face  suggested  a  displeasure  he  did 
not  in  reality  feel. 

"As  you  say,  it's  a  strange  notion,"  he  remarked,  smiling  very 
slightly.  "I  don't  know  why  you  shouldn't  have  your  own 
way,  Ida,  but — it'll  cost  you  a  good  deal  of  trouble,  you  know." 


A  GARDEN  PARTY  271 

"You  are  mistaking  me,  grandfather.  You  think  this 
a  curious  whim  I  have  got  into  my  head,  and  your  kindness 
would  tempt  you  to  let  me  do  a  silly  thing  just  for  the  sake 
of  having  my  way.  It  is  no  foolish  fancy.  It's  not  for  my 
sake,  hut  for  the  children's." 

Her  eyes  were  aglow  with  earnestness,  and  her  voice 
trembled. 

"Do  you  think  they'd  care  for  it?"  asked  her  grand- 
father, impressed  by  something  in  her  which  he  had  never 
seen  before. 

"  Care  for  it ! — Imagine  a  poor  little  thing  that  has  been 
born  in  a  wretched,  poverty-stricken,  disorderly  home,  a 
home  that  is  no  home,  and  growing  up  with  no  knowledge 
of  anything  but  tliose  four  liateful  walls  and  the  street  out- 
side. No  toys,  no  treats,  no  change  of  air ;  playing  in  the 
gutter,  never  seeing  a  beautiful  thing,  never  hearing  of  the 
pleasures  which  rich  people's  children  would  pine  and  die 
without.     And  a  child  for  all  that." 

Mr.  Woodstock  cleared  his  throat  and  smoothed  the  news- 
paper upon  his  knee. 

"How  will  you  get  them  here,  Ida?" 

"  Oh,  leave  that  to  me  !  Let  us  choose  a  day ;  wouldn't 
Saturday  be  best?  I  will  go  there  myself,  and  pick  out  the 
children,  and  get  their  mothers  to  promise  to  have  them 
ready.  Then  I'll  arrange  to  have  one  of  those  carts  you  see 
at  Sunday-school  treats.  Why,  the  ride  here,  that  alone  ! 
And  you'll  let  me  have  tea  for  them, — ^just  bread  and  butter 
and  a  bun, — it  will  cost  not  half  as  much  as  my  new  dress 
this  week,  not  half  as  much " 

"  Come,  come,  I  can't  stand  this  !  "  growled  out  Abraham, 
getting  up  from  the  seat.  "  I'd  give  them  the  garden,  for 
good  and  all,  rather  than  see  you  like  that.  Say  Saturday, 
if  it's  fine  ;  if  not,  Monday,  or  when  you  like." 

On  the  following  morning  the  details  were  arranged,  and 
the  next  day  Ida  went  to  Litany  Lane.  She  preferred  to 
go  alone,  and  on  this  errand  Mr.  Woodstock  would  have 
found  a  difficulty  in  accompanying  her.  Ida  knew  exactly 
the  nature  of  the  task  she  had  taken  in  hand,  and  found  it 
easier  than  it  would  have  been  to  the  ordinary  young  lady. 
She  jotted  down  the  names  of  some  twenty  little  girls,  select- 
ing such  as  were  between  the  ages  of  eight  and  twelve,  and 
obtained  promises  that  all  should  be  ready  at  a  fixed  hour 
next  Saturday.     She  met  with  doubts  and  objections  and 


272  THE  UNCLASSED 

difficulties  enough,  but  only  failed  in  one  or  two  instances. 
Then  followed  fresh  talks  with  her  grandfather,  and  all  the 
details  were  arranged. 

There  was  rain  on  the  Thursday  and  Friday,  but  when  Ida 
drew  up  her  blind  at  six  o'clock  on  Saturday  morning,  the 
sky  gave  promise  of  good  things.  Slie  was  walking  in  the 
garden  long  before  breakfast-time,  and  gladdened  to  rapture 
as  slie  watched  the  sun  gain  power,  till  it  streamed  gloriously 
athwart  cloudless  blue.  By  one  o'clock  she  was  at  the  end 
of  Litany  Lane,  where  the  cart  with  long  scats  was  already 
waiting ;  its  arrival  had  become  known  to  the  little  ones, 
and  very  few  needed  summoning.  Of  course  there  were  dis- 
appointments now  and  again.  In  spite  of  mothers'  promises, 
half  the  children  had  their  usual  dirty  faces,  and  showed  no 
sign  of  any  preparation.  Five  or  six  of  them  had  nothing  to 
put  on  their  heads  ;  two  had  bare  feet.  It  was  too  late  to  see 
to  these  things  now ;  as  they  were,  the  children  clambered, 
or  were  lifted,  on  to  the  cart,  and  Ida  took  her  seat  among 
them.  Then  a  crack  of  the  driver's  whip,  and  amid  the  shouts 
of  envious  brothers  and  sisters,  and  before  the  wondering  stare 
of  the  rest  of  the  population,  off  they  drove  away. 

"  Who'd  like  an  apple  1 "  Ida  asked,  as  soon  as  they  were 
well  clear  of  the  narrow  streets.  There  was  a  general  scream 
of  delight,  and  from  a  hamper  by  her  side  she  brought  out 
apples  and  distributed  them.  Only  for  a  minute  or  two  had 
there  been  anytliiug  like  shyness  in  Ida's  presence  :  she  knew 
how  to  talk  and  behave  to  these  poor  little  waifs.  Her  eyes 
filled  with  tears  as  she  listened  to  their  chatter  among  them- 
selves, and  recognised  so  many  a  fragment  of  her  own  past 
life.  One  child,  who  sat  close  by  her,  had  been  spending  the 
morning  in  washing  vegetables  for  the  Saturday-night  market. 
Did  not  that  call  to  mind  something? — so  far  off,  so  far,  yet 
nearer  to  her  than  many  things  which  had  intervened.  How 
they  all  laughed,  as  the  big,  black  houses  gave  way  to  brighter 
streets,  and  these  again  began  to  open  upon  glimpses  of  field 
or  garden  !  Kot  one  of  them  had  the  slightest  conception  of 
Avhither  they  were  being  taken,  or  what  was  to  happen  to 
them  at  length.  But  they  had  confidence  in  "the  lady." 
She  was  a  sorceress  in  their  eyes ;  what  limit  could  there  be 
to  her  powers  1  Something  good  and  joyous  awaited  them ; 
tliat  was  all  they  knew  or  cared  ;  1 '-agues  of  happiness,  stretch- 
ing away  to  the  remote  limits  of  the  day's  glory ;  a  present 
rapture  beyond  knowledge,  and  a  memory  for  ever. 


A  Garden  VarU.—Page  273 


A  GARDEN  PARTY  173 

Mr.  "Woodstock  stood  within  the  gate  of  the  garden,  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  and  as  the  vehicle  came  in  sight  he 
drew  just  a  little  back. 

They  streamed  along  the  carriage-ilrive,  and  in  a  minute 
or  two  were  all  clustered  upon  tliu  lawn  behind  the  house. 
What  was  expected  of  them  ?  Had  an  angel  taken  them  by 
the  hand  and  led  them  straiglit  from  Litany  Lane  through 
the  portals  of  paradise,  they  could  not  have  been  more  awed 
and  bewildered.  Trees  and  rose-bushes,  turf  and  beds  of 
flowers,  seats  in  the  shade,  skipping-ropes  thrown  about  on 
the  open — and  there,  hark,  a  hand-organ,  a  better  one  than 
ever  they  danced  to  on  tlie  pavement,  striking  up  to  make 
them  merry.  That  was  the  liappiest  thought  I  It  was  some- 
thing not  too  unfamiliar ;  the  one  joyful  thing  of  which  they 
had  experience  meeting  them  here  to  smooth  over  the  first 
introduction  to  a  new  world.  Ida  knew  it  well,  the  effect  of 
that  organ ;  had  it  not  lightened  her  heart  many  and  many 
a  time  in  the  by -gone  darkness  ?  Two  of  the  girls  had  caught 
each  other  by  the  waist  at  the  first  sounds.  Might  they? 
Would  "  the  lady  "  like  it  ? 

Miss  Hurst  had  come  out  as  soon  as  the  music  began,  and 
Ida  ran  to  talk  with  her.  There  was  whispering  between 
them,  and  pointing  to  one  and  another  of  the  children,  and 
then  the  governess,  with  a  pleased  face,  disappeared  again. 
She  was  away  some  time,  but  on  her  return  two  of  the  children 
were  called  into  the  house.  Bare-footed  they  went  in,  but 
came  forth  again  with  shoes  and  stocldngs  on,  hardly  able  to 
comprehend  what  had  ha])pened  to  them.  Then  were  sum- 
moned those  who  had  nothing  on  their  heads,  and  to  each  of 
these  a  straw  hat  was  given,  a  less  wonderful  possession  than 
the  shoes  and  stockings,  but  a  source  of  gladness  and  pride. 

In  the  meantime,  however,  marvels  had  accumulated  on 
the  lawn.  Whilst  yet  the  organ  was  playing,  there  appeared 
two  men,  one  of  them  carrying  a  big  drum,  the  other  hidden 
under  a  Punch  and  Judy  show.  Of  a  sudden  there  sounded 
a  shrill  note,  high  above  the  organ,  a  fluting  from  the  bottom 
to  the  top  of  the  gamut,  tlie  immemorial  summons  to  chil- 
dren, the  overture  to  the  ])riniitive  drama.  It  was  drowned 
in  a  scream  of  welcome,  which,  in  its  turn,  was  outdone  by 
thunderous  peals  upon  the  drum. 

Mr.  Woodstock  said  little  during  the  whole  afternoon. 
Perhaps  he  thought  the  more. 

Tables  had  been  fixed  in  one  part  of  the  garden,  and  as 

s 


374  THE  UNCLASSED 

the  drama  of  Punch  drew  to  an  end,  its  interest  found  a 
serious  rival  in  the  spectacle  of  piled  plates  of  cake.  But 
there  was  to  intervene  nearly  half-an-liour  before  the  tea-urns 
were  ready  to  make  an  appearance.  The  skipping-ropes  came 
into  requisition  outside,  but  in  the  house  was  proceeding 
simultaneously  a  rather  more  serious  pastime,  which  fell  to 
Ida's  share  to  carry  out.  Choosing  the  little  girl  whose  face 
was  the  dirtiest  and  hair  the  untidiest  of  any  she  could  see, 
she  led  her  gently  away  to  a  place  where  a  good  bowl  of  warm 
water  and  plenty  of  soap  were  at  hand,  and,  with  the  air  of 
bestowing  the  greatest  kindness  of  all,  fell  to  work  to  such 
purpose  that  in  a  few  minutes  the  child  went  back  to  the 
garden  a  resplendent  being,  positively  clean  and  kempt  for 
the  first  time  in  her  life. 

"  I  know  you'll  feel  uncomfortable  for  a  little,  dear,"  Ida 
said,  dismissing  the  astonished  maiden  Avith  a  kiss,  "  but  the 
strangeness  will  wear  off,  and  you'll  see  how  much  nicer  it  is." 

One  after  another,  all  were  dealt  with  in  this  way,  pre- 
sently with  a  good-natur«d  servant-girl's  assistance,  as  time 
pressed.  The  result  was  that  a  transformed  company  sat 
down  to  tea.  The  feeling  wore  ofiF,  as  Ida  said,  but  at  first 
cleanliness  meant  positive  discomfort,  taking  the  form  of  loss 
of  identity  and  difficulty  of  mutual  recognition.  They  looked 
at  their  hands,  and  were  amazed  at  the  whiteness  tliat  had 
come  upon  them ;  they  kept  feeling  their  faces  and  their 
ordered  hair.  But  the  appetite  of  one  and  all  was  improved 
by  the  process. 

"  How  I  wish  Mr.  Waymark  was  here  ! "  Ida  said  to  her 
grandfather,  as  they  stood  together,  watching  the  feast.  "  Ho 
would  enjoy  it.  We  must  give  him  a  full  account  to-morrow, 
mustn't  we  1 " 

"  I  forgot,"  replied  the  other.  "  I  had  a  note  from  him 
this  morning,  saying  he  thought  he  shouLln't  be  able  to  come." 

The  first  shadow  of  disappointment  which  this  day  had 
brought  fell  upon  the  girl's  countenance.  She  made  no  reply, 
and  presently  went  to  help  one  of  the  youngest  children,  who 
had  spilt  her  tea  and  was  in  evident  distress. 

After  tea  the  organ  struck  up  again,  and  again  there  was 
dancing  on  the  lawn.  Then  a  gathering  of  flowers  by  Ida  and 
Miss  Hurst,  and  one  given  to  each  of  the  children,  with  in- 
junctions to  put  it  in  water  on  reaching  home,  and  keep  it  as 
long  as  possible  in  memory  of  the  day.  Already  the  sun  was 
westering,  and  Litany  Lane  must  be  reached  before  dusk. 


A  LATE  REVENGE  275 

"  Poor  children  !  "  Ida  sighed  to  herself.  "  If  they  had 
but  homes  to  go  to ! "  And  added,  in  her  thought,  "  We 
shall  see,  we  shall  see  !  " 

Every  bit  as  joyous  as  the  ride  out  was  the  return  to  town. 
With  foresight,  Ida  made  the  two  youngest  sit  on  each  side 
of  her ;  soon  the  little  heads  were  drooping  in  her  lap,  sub- 
dued by  the  very  weariness  of  bliss.  Miss  Hurst  had  offered 
to  accompany  Ida,  that  she  might  not  have  to  come  back 
alone,  but  Ida  wanted  her  friends  all  to  herself,  and  was  re- 
warded by  the  familiarity  with  which  they  gossipped  to  her 
all  the  way. 

"  Hands  up,  all  those  who  haven't  enjoyed  themselves  ! " 
she  exclaimed,  just  as  they  were  entering  the  noisy  streets. 

There  was  a  moment's  doubt,  then  a  burst  of  merry 
laughter. 

"  Hands  up,  all  those  who  would  like  to  come  again !  " 

All  held  up  both  arms — except  the  two  children  who  were 
asleep. 

"  Well,  you've  all  been  good,  and  I'm  very  pleased  with 
you,  and  you  shall  come  again  !  " 

It  was  the  culmination  of  the  day's  delight.  For  the  first 
time  in  their  lives  the  children  of  Litany  Lane  and  Elm  Court 
had  something  to  look  forward  to. 


CHAPTER    XXXIY 

A  LATE   RKVKNGE 

Ida  clung  to  the  possibility  of  Waymark's  paying  his  usual 
visit  on  the  Sunday,  but  she  was  disappointed.  This  absence 
had  no  reason  beyond  Waymark's  choice.  It  was  the  last 
Sunday  but  one  of  the  month  ;  a  week  more,  and  he  must 
keep  his  word  with  Mr.  Woodstock.  The  evil  day  had  been 
put  oflF,  and  to  what  purpose  1  There  had  been  some  scarcely 
confessed  hope.  IMaud's  sudden  departure  from  England,  and 
her  strange  letter,  might  perhaps  mean  a  change  in  her  Avhich 
would  bring  about  his  freedom  ;  he  himself  might  possibly  be 
driven  by  his  wretchedness  to  tlie  point  of  writing  to  her  in 
a  way  which  would  hasten  her  decision,  if  indeed  she  were 
doubting. 

All  was  over  between  Ida  and  himself,  so  why  undergo 
the  torment  of  still  seeing    her.      In  sending  his  note  to 


276  THE  UNCLASSED 

Mr.  Woodstock,  he  was  on  the  point  of  surrendering  the  week 
thot  remained,  and  bogging  that  Ida  might  be  told  at  once, 
but  his  hand  refused  to  write  the  words.  Through  the  week 
that  ensued  he  had  no  moment's  rest.  At  night  he  went  to 
places  of  amusement,  to  seek  distraction ;  he  wished  and 
(headed  the  coming  of  the  Sunday.  How  would  Ida  receive 
the  revelation  ?  Should  he  write  to  her  and  try  to  make  her 
understand  him  ?  Yet  in  that  he  could  scarcely  succeed,  and 
failure  would  bring  upon  him  her  contempt.  The  only  safety 
lay  in  never  seeing  or  communicating  with  her  again. 

Even  on  Saturday  night  he  had  iKjt  made  up  his  mind  how 
to  act.  He  went  to  tlu^  theatre,  but  left  before  the  play  was 
half  over,  and  walked  slowly  homewards.  As  he  drew  near 
to  his  lodgings,  some  one  hastened  towards  him  with  both 
hands  held  out.     It  was  Maud  Enderby. 

"  Oh,  I  have  waited  so  long  !    I  wanted  to  see  you  to-night." 

She  was  exhausted  with  fatigue  and  distress,  and  still  held 
his  hands,  as  if  needing  their  support.  To  Waymark,  in  his 
then  state  of  mind,  she  came  like  an  apparition.  He  could 
onlj"^  look  at  her  in  astonishment. 

"  Last  night,"  she  said,  "  I  had  a  telegram  from  father.  He 
told  me  to  come  back  at  once ;  he  had  had  to  leave,  and 
mother  was  alone.  I  was  to  call  for  a  letter  at  a  place  in  the 
city.  I  was  in  time  to  catch  the  night  boat,  and  when  I  got 
his  letter  it  told  me  dreadful  things.  Soinething  has  hap- 
pened which  compelled  him  to  leave  England  at  once.  He 
could  do  nothing,  make  no  arrangements.  Mother,  he  said, 
had  a  little  money;  we  must  sell  everything  and  manage  to 
live  somewhere  for  a  little ;  he  would  try  to  send  us  what  he 
could.  Then  I  went  home.  There  was  a  police-officer  in  the 
house,  and  mother  had  gone  away,  I  can't  tell  where.    Father 

has  done  something,  and Oh,  what  shall  I  dol     You 

can  help  me,  can't  you^" 

Waymark,  whom  this  news  overwhelmed  with  blank  de- 
spair, could  at  first  say  nothing ;  but  the  very  greatness  of  the 
blow  gradually  produced  in  him  the  strength  to  bear  it.  He 
saw  that  fate  had  taken  the  future  out  of  his  hands ;  there 
was  no  longer  even  the  appearance  of  choice.  To  Maud  he 
must  now  devote  himself,  aiding  her  with  all  his  strength  in 
the  present  and  through  the  days  to  come. 

"  Shall  I  go  back  home  with  you  1 "  he  asked,  pressing  her 
hands  to  comfort  her,  and  speaking  with  the  calmness  of  one 
who  had  made  up  his  mind. 


A  LATE  REVENGE  277 

"Yes  ;  perhaps  uiother  will  have  veturncd.  But  what  shall 
we  do  ?  What  will  happen  to  father  ?  Do  you  know  anything 
of  aU  this?" 

"  Nothing  whatever.  Walk  with  me  to  the  top  of  the 
street,  and  we  will  take  a  cab." 

She  hung  upon  his  arm,  trembling  violently  ;  and  durin<,' 
the  drive  to  Paddington,  she  lay  back  with  her  eyes  closed, 
holding  Waymark's  hands  in  her  own,  which  burned  with 
fever.  On  alighting,  they  found  that  Mrs.  Endorby  had  in 
deed  returned ;  the  servant  told  them  so,  and  at  the  same 
time  wliispered  something  to  Maud.  Tliey  went  wp  into  the 
drawing-room,  and  there  found  Mrs.  Enderby  lying  upon  the 
couch.  She  could  not  understand  when  she  was  spoken  to, 
but  nodded  her  head  and  looked  at  them  with  large,  woe- 
begone, wandering  eyes.    Every  effort  to  rouse  her  was  vain. 

It  was  a  dreadful  night. 

The  early  dawn  was  in  the  sky  when  AVayniark  reached 
Beaufort  Street.  With  no  thought  of  sleep,  he  sat  down  at 
once  and  wrote  to  Mr.  Woodstock,  relating  wlmt  had  hap- 
pened. "  So,  you  see,"  he  concluded,  "  with  the  tuJ  of  July 
has  come  the  decision  of  my  fate,  as  we  agreed  it  should.  If 
I  had  seen  you  loni'jrrow,  as  I  proposed,  I  know  not  what 
folly  I  might  have  been  guilty  of.  Tell  Ida  everything  at 
once  ;  I  .shall  never  see  her  again.  But  do  you,  if  you  can, 
be  my  friend  still.  I  need  your  help  in  this  horrible  situa- 
tion, ^leet  me— will  you  1 — at  the  office  to-morrow  night, 
say  at  eight  o'clock." 

This  letter  would  reach  Tottenham  on  Monday  morning. 
Waymark  went  to  the  ofTice  at  the  hour  he  had  mentioned, 
and  waited  till  ten  o'clock.  But  Mr.  Woodstock  had  not 
been  in  St.  John  Street  Road  that  day,  and  the  waiting  was 
in  vain. 

The  garden-party  had  not  been  without  its  efTect  upon 
^fr.  Woodstock.  On  the  following  day,  when  he  was  sitting 
again  with  Ida  in  the  garden,  he  recurred  to  the  conversation 
of  a  week  ago,  and  seemed  desirous  of  leading  the  girl  to 
speak  freely  on  the  subjects  which  had  such  power  to  stir 
her.  Ida  had  been  waiting  for  this ;  she  rejoiced  at  the 
promise  it  held  out,  and  unburdened  her  heart.  Would  he 
not  do  yet  more  for  the  poor  people  in  his  houses  1  Could 
not  their  homes  in  some  way  be  made  more  fit  for  human 
beings?  With  careful  observation  of  his  mood,  she  led  him 
on  to  entertain  thoughts  he  had  never  dreamt  of,  and  before 


278  THE  UNCLASSED 

they  parted  she  had  all  but  obtained  a  promise  that  he  would 
go  over  the  whole  of  his  property  and  really  see  what  could 
be  done.  Ida's  influence  over  him  had  by  this  time  become 
very  great ;  the  old  man  was  ready  to  do  much  for  the  sake 
of  pleasing  her. 

On  the  following  Tuesday  he  went  down  into  Litany  Lane 
in  company  with  a  builder,  and  proceeded  to  investigate  each 
of  the  houses.  In  many  instances  the  repairs,  to  be  of  any 
use,  would  have  to  be  considerable ;  there  would  be  a  diffi- 
culty in  executing  them  whilst  the  tenants  remained  in 
possession.  One  possibility  occurred  to  him  in  the  course 
of  examination,  and  he  determined  to  make  use  of  it ;  he 
would  create  room  by  getting  rid  of  the  worst  tenants,  all 
those,  in  fact,  whose  presence  was  pollution  to  the  neighbour- 
hood, and  whom  it  was  hopeless  to  think  of  reforming  In 
this  way  he  would  be  able  to  shift  about  the  remaining 
lodgers  without  too  great  a  loss  to  himself,  and  avoid  the 
necessity  of  turning  helpless  people  into  the  street. 

Mr.  Woodstock  had  considerably  more  knowledge  of  the 
state  of  his  property,  and  of  the  tenants  inhabiting  it,  than 
is  usual  with  landlords  of  his  kind  ;  for  all  that,  the  present 
examination  brought  to  light  not  a  few  things  which  were 
startling  even  to  him.  Since  Waymark  had  ceased  to  act 
as  his  collector,  the  office  had  been  filled  by  an  agent  of  the 
ordinary  kind,  and  Mr.  Woodstock  had,  till  just  now,  taken 
less  interest  in  the  property  than  formerly.  Things  had  got 
worse  on  the  whole.  Whereas  Waymark  had  here  and  there 
been  successful  in  suppn  .sing  the  grosser  forms  of  unclean- 
liness  by  threats  of  expulsion,  and  at  times  by  the  actual 
enforcement  of  his  threat,  no  such  supervision  had  of  late 
been  exercised.  There  were  very  few  houses  in  which  the 
air  was  at  all  tolerable ;  in  many  instances  the  vilest  odours 
hung  about  the  open  door-ways.  To  pass  out  of  Elm  Court 
into  the  wider  streets  around  was  like  a  change  to  the  fresh- 
ness of  woods  and  fields.  And  the  sources  of  this  miasma 
were  only  too  obvious. 

The  larger  houses  which  made  up  Litany  Lane  had  under- 
ground cellars ;  in  the  court  there  were  fortunately  no  such 
retreats.  On  entering  one  of  these  former  houses,  the  two 
were  aware  of  an  especially  offensive  odour  rising  from  below 
the  stairs.  Pursuing,  however,  their  plan  of  beginning  at 
the  garrets,  they  went  up  together.  In  the  room  at  the  top 
they  came  upon  a  miserable  spectacle.     On  something  which, 


A  LATE  REVENGE  279 

for  want  of  another  name,  was  probably  called  a  bed,  there 
lay  a  woman  either  already  dead  or  in  a  state  of  coma,  and 
on  the  floor  sat  two  very  young  children,  amusing  themselves 
with  a  dead  kitten,  their  only  toy.  ISlr.  Woodstock  bent 
over  the  woman  and  examined  her.  He  found  that  she  was 
breathing,  though  in  a  slow  and  scarcely  perceptible  way ; 
her  eyes  were  open,  but  expressed  no  consciousness.  The 
slightly-parted  lips  were  almost  black,  and  here  and  there 
on  her  face  there  seemed  to  be  a  kind  of  rash.  Mr.  Wood- 
stock's companion,  after  taking  one  glance,  drew  hastily  back. 

"Looks  like  small-pox,"  he  said,  in  an  alarmed  voice. 
"  I  wouldn't  stand  so  near,  sir,  if  I  was  you." 

"Isn't  there  any  one  to  look  to  her?"  said  Abraham 
Then  turning  to  one  of  the  children,  "  Where's  your  father  ?" 
he  asked. 

"  Dono,"  was  the  little  fellow's  indifferent  reply. 

"  Are  you  alone  ? " 

"Dono." 

They  went  down  to  the  floor  below,  and  there  found  a 
woman  standing  at  her  door. 

"What's  the  matter  with  her  up  there?"  asked  Mr. 
Woodstock. 

"She's  very  bad,  sir.  Her  Susan's  gone  to  get  a  order 
for  the  parish  doctor,  I  b'lieve.  I  was  just  a-goin'  to  look 
after  the  children  when  you  came  up.  I've  only  just  come 
'ome  myself,  you  see." 

"  What's  that  horrible  stench  down  below  ?  " 

"I  didn't  notice  nothink,  sir,"  said  the  woman,  looking 
over  the  banisters  as  if  the  odour  might  be  seen. 

"  Any  one  living  in  the  kitchen  1 " 

"There  u-as  some  one,  I  b'lieve,  sir,  but  I  don't  exac'ly 
know  if  they's  there  yet." 

Presently  they  reached  the  region  below.  In  absolute 
darkness  they  descended  steps  which  were  covered  with  a 
sort  of  slime,  and  tlien,  by  striking  a  light,  found  themselves 
in  front  of  a  closi-d  door.  0})ening  this,  they  entered  a  vile 
hole  where  it  could  scarcely  be  said  to  be  daylight,  so  thickly 
was  the  little  window  patched  with  filth.  Groping  about  in 
the  stifling  atmof-phere,  they  discovered  in  one  corner  a  mass 
of  indescri liable  matter,  from  which  arose,  seemingly,  the 
worst  of  the  effluvia. 

"  AVhat  is  it  1 "  asked  jNIr.  Woodstock,  holding  a  lighted 
match. 


aSo  THE  UNCLASSED 

"  Rotten  fish,  it  seems  to  me,"  said  the  other,  holding  his 
nose. 

Abraham  turned  away ;  then,  as  if  his  eye  had  suddenly 
caught  something,  strode  to  another  corner.  There  lay  the 
body  of  a  dead  child,  all  but  naked,  upon  a  piece  of 
sacking. 

"  We'd  better  get  out  of  this,  sir,"  said  the  builder.  "  We 
shall  be  poisoned.     Wonder  they  haven't  the  plague  here." 

"  Seems  to  me  they  have,"  returned  Mr.  Woodstock. 

They  went  out  into  the  street,  and  hailed  the  first  police- 
man in  sight.  Then,  giving  up  his  investigations  for  that 
morning,  Mr.  Woodstock  repaired  to  the  police-station,  and 
after  a  good  deal  of  trouble,  succeeded  in  getting  the  attend- 
ance of  a  medical  man,  with  the  result  that  the  woman  they 
had  seen  up  in  the  garret  was  found  to  be  in  truth  dying  of 
small-pox.  If  the  contagion  spread,  as  probably  it  had  by  this 
time  begun  to,  there  would  be  a  pleasant  state  of  things  in 
Litany  Lane. 

In  the  evening,  before  going  home,  Abraham  had  a  bath. 
He  was  not  a  nervous  man,  but  the  possibilities  of  the  risk 
he  had  run  were  not  agreeable  to  contemplate.  Two  or  three 
days  went  by  without  any  alarming  symptoms,  but  as  he  learnt 
that  another  case  of  small-pox  had  declared  itself  in  the  Lane, 
he  postponed  his  personal  activity  there  for  the  present,  and 
remained  a  good  deal  at  home.  On  the  Sunday  morning— 
when  Waymark's  letter  had  already  been  posted — he  awoke 
with  a  headache,  continued  from  the  night  before.  It  grew 
worse  during  the  day,  and  he  went  to  bed  early  with  a  dull 
pain  across  the  forehead,  which  prevented  him  from  sleeping. 
On  the  following  morning  the  headache  still  remained ;  he 
felt  a  disinclination  to  rise,  and  now,  for  the  first  time,  began 
to  be  troubled  with  vague  fears,  which  blended  themselves 
with  his  various  pre-occupations  in  a  confusing  way.  The 
letter  which  arrived  from  Waymark  was  taken  up  to  him.  It 
caused  him  extreme  irritation,  which  was  followed  by  uneasy 
dozing,  the  pain  across  his  forehead  growing  worse  the  while. 
A  doctor  was  summoned. 

The  same  day  Ida  and  Miss  Hurst  left  the  house,  to  occupy 
lodgings  hard  by ;  it  was  done  at  Mr.  Woodstock's  peremptory 
bidding.  Ida  at  once  wrote  to  Waymark,  begging  him  to 
come ;  he  arrived  early  next  morning,  and  learnt  the  state  of 
things. 

"  The  doctor  tells  me,"  said  Ida,  "  there  is  a  case  in  Litany 


A  LATE  REVENGE  281 

Lane.  It  is  very  crueL  Grandfather  went  to  make  arrange- 
ments for  having  the  houses  repaired." 

"  There  I  recognise  your  hand,"  Waymark  observed,  as  she 
made  a  pause. 

"  Why  have  you  so  deserted  us  1 "  Ida  asked.  "  Why  do 
we  see  you  so  seldom  ? " 

"  It  is  so  late  every  evening  before  I  leave  the  library,  and 
I  am  busy  with  all  sorts  of  things." 

They  had  little  to  say  to  each  other.  Waymark  promised 
to  communicate  at  once  with  a  friend  of  Mr.  Woodstock's,  a 
man  of  business,  and  to  come  again  as  soon  as  possible,  to  give 
any  help  he  could.  Whether  Ida  had  been  told  of  his  posi- 
tion remained  uncertain. 

For  Ida  they  were  sad,  long  days.  Troubles  which  she 
had  previously  managed  to  keep  in  the  background  now 
again  beset  her.  She  had  attached  herself  to  her  grand- 
father; gratitude  for  all  that  he  was  doing  at  her  wish 
strengthened  her  affection,  and  she  awaited  eacli  new  day 
with  fear.  Waymark  seemed  colder  to  her  in  these  days 
than  he  had  ever  been  formerly.  The  occasion  ought,  she 
felt,  to  have  brought  them  nearer  together ;  but  on  his  side 
there  appeared  to  be  no  such  feeling.  The  time  hung  very 
heavily  on  her  hands.  She  tried  to  go  on  with  her  studies, 
but  it  was  a  mere  pretence. 

Soon,  she  learnt  that  there  was  no  hope ;  the  sick  man 
had  sunk  into  a  state  of  unconsciousness  from  which  he 
would  probably  not  awake.  She  haunted  the  neighbour- 
hood of  the  house,  or,  in  her  lodging,  sat  like  one  who  waits, 
and  the  waiting  was  for  she  knew  not  what.  There  was 
once  more  to  be  a  great  change  in  her  life,  but  of  what  kind 
she  could  not  foresee.  She  wished  her  suffering  had  been 
more  acute ;  her  only  relative  was  dying,  yet  no  tear  would 
come  to  her  eyes ;  it  was  heartless,  and  to  weep  would  have 
brought  relief  to  her.     She  could  only  sit  and  wait. 

When  Waymark  came,  on  the  evening  of  the  next  day,  he 
heard  that  all  was  over.  Ida  saw  him,  but  only  for  a  few 
minutes.  In  going  away,  he  paused  by  the  gates  of  the 
silent  house. 

"  The  slums  have  avenged  themselves,"  he  said  to  him- 
self sadly,  "  though  late." 


28a  THE  UNCLASSED 

CHAPTER  XXXV 

HOUSE-WAKMING 

On  a  Sunday  afternoon  in  October,  when  Abraham  Wood- 
stock liaJ  lain  in  his  grave  for  three  months,  Waymark  met 
Julian  Casti  by  appointment  in  Sloans  Square,  and  they  set 
forth  together  on  a  journey  to  Peckham.  They  were  going 
thither  by  invitation,  and,  to  judge  from  the  laughter  which 
accompanied  their  talk,  their  visit  was  likely  to  afford  them 
entertainment.  The  merriment  on  Julian's  side  was  not 
very  natural;  he  looked  indeed  too  ill  to  enjoy  mirth  of 
any  kind.  As  they  stood  in  the  Square,  waiting  for  an 
omnibus,  he  kept  glancing  uneasily  about  him,  especially  in 
the  direction  whence  they  had  come.  It  had  the  appearance 
of  a  habit,  but  before  they  had  stood  much  more  than  a 
minute,  he  started  and  exclaimed  in  a  low  voice  to  his 
companion — 

"I  told  you  so.  She  is  just  behind  there.  She  has 
come  round  by  the  back  streets,  just  to  see  if  I'd  told  her 
the  truth." 

Waymark  glanced  back  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Pooh  !     Never  mind,"  he  said.     "  You're  used  to  it." 

"Used  to  it!  Yes,"  Julian  returned,  his  face  flushing 
suddenly  a  deep  red,  the  effect  of  extraordinary  excitement; 
"and  it  is  driving  me  mad." 

Then,  after  a  fit  of  coughing — 

"  She  found  my  poem  last  night,  and  burnt  it." 

"Burnt  it?" 

"  Yes  ;  simply  because  she  could  not  understand  it.  She 
said  she  thought  it  was  waste  paper,  but  I  saw,  I  saw." 

The  'bus  they  waited  for  came  \ip,  and  tliey  went  on  their 
way.  On  reaching  the  neighbourhood  of  Peckham,  they 
struck  off  through  a  complex  of  small  new  streets,  apparently 
familiar  to  AVaymark,  and  came  at  length  to  a  little  shop, 
also  very  new,  the  windows  of  which  displayed  a  fresh- 
looking  assortment  of  miscellaneous  goods.  There  was  half 
a  large  cheese,  marked  by  the  incisions  of  the  tasting-knife ; 
a  boiled  ham,  garlanded;  a  cone  of  brawn;  a  truncated 
pyramid  of  spiced  beef,  released  from  its  American  tin ;  also 
German  sausage  and  other  dainties  of  the  kmd.  Then  there 
were  canisters  of  tea  and  coffee,  tins  of  mustard,  a  basket  of 


HOUSE-WARMING  283 

eggs,  some  onions,  boxes  of  baking-powder  and  of  blacking ; 
all  arranged  so  as  to  make  an  impression  on  the  passers-by ; 
everything  clean  and  bright.  Above  the  window  stood  in 
imposing  gilt  letters  the  name  of  the  proprietor  :  O'Gree. 

They  entered.  The  shop  was  very  small  and  did  not  con- 
tain much  stock.  The  new  shelves  showed  a  row  of  biscuit- 
tins,  but  little  else,  and  from  the  ceiling  hung  balls  of  string. 
On  the  counter  lay  an  inviting  round  of  boiled  beef.  Odours 
of  provisions  and  of  fresh  paint  were  strong  in  the  air.  Every- 
thing gleamed  from  recent  scrubbing  and  polishing;  the  floor 
only  emphasised  its  purity  by  a  little  track  where  a  child's 
shoes  had  brought  in  mud  from  the  street ;  doubtless  it  had 
been  washed  over  since  the  Sunday  morning's  custom  had 
subsided-  Wherever  the  walls  would  have  confessed  their 
bareness  the  enterprising  tradesman  had  hung  gorgeous  adver- 
tising cards.  At  the  sound  of  the  visitors'  footsteps,  the  door 
leading  out  of  the  shop  into  the  parlour  behind  opened  briskly, 
a  head  having  previously  appeared  over  the  red  curtain,  and 
Mr.  O'Gree,  in  the  glory  of  Sunday  attire,  rushed  forward 
with  eager  hands.     His  welcome  was  obstreperous, 

"  Waymark,  you're  a  brick !  Mr.  Casti,  I'm  rejoiced  to 
receive  you  in  my  establishment !  You're  neither  a  minute 
too  soon  nor  a  minute  too  late.  Mrs.  O'Gree  only  this 
moment  called,  out  from  the  kitchen  that  the  kettle  was 
boiling  and  the  crumpets  at  the  point  of  perfection  !  I  knew 
your  punctuality  of  old,  Waymark.  Mr.  Casti,  how  does  it 
strike  you  ?  Roaring  trade,  Waymark  !  Done  two  shillings 
and  threepence  three  farthings  this  Sunday  morning.  Look 
here,  me  boy, — ho,  ho  !  " 

He  drew  out  the  till  behind  the  counter,  and  jingled  his 
hand  in  coppers.  Then  he  rushed  about  in  the  wilde.st 
fervour  from  object  to  object,  opening  tins  which  he  had 
forgotten  were  empty,  making  passes  at  the  beef  and  the 
ham  with  a  formidable  carving-knife,  demonstrating  the  use 
of  a  sugar- chopper  and  a  coffee-grinder,  and,  lastly,  calling 
attention  with  infinite  glee  to  a  bad  halfpenny  which  he 
had  detected  on  the  previous  afternoon,  and  had  forthwith 
nailed  down  to  the  counter,  in  terrorem.  Then  he  lifted 
with  much  solemnity  a  hinged  portion  of  the  counter,  and 
requested  his  visitors  to  pass  into  the  back-parlour.  Here 
there  was  the  same  perfect  cleanliness,  though  the  furniture 
was  scant  and  very  simple.  The  round  table  was  laid  for 
tea,  with  a  spotless  cluth,  plates  of  a  very  demonstrative 


284  THE  UNCLASSED 

pattern,  and  knives  and  forks  wliich  seemed  only  just  to 
have  left  the  ironmonger's  shop. 

"  We  pass,  you  observe,  Mr.  Casti,"  cried  the  ex-teacher, 
"  from  the  region  of  commerce  to  that  of  domestic  intimacy. 
Here  Mrs.  O'Gree  reigns  supreme,  as  indeed  she  does  in  the 
other  department,  as  far  as  presiding  genius  goes.  She's  in 
all  places  at  once,  like  a  birrud !  Mr.  Casti,"  in  a  whisper, 
"I  shall  have  the  pleasure  of  introducing  you  to  one  of  the 
most  remarkable  women  it  was  ever  your  lot  to  meet;  a 
phenomenon  of " 

The  inner  door  opened,  and  the  lady  herself  interrupted 
these  eulogies.  Sally  was  charming.  Her  trim  little  body 
attired  in  the  trimmest  of  homely  dresses,  her  sharp  little 
face  shining  and  just  a  little  red  with  excitement,  her  quick 
movements,  her  laughing  eyes,  her  restless  hands  graced  with 
the  new  wedding-ring — all  made  up  a  picture  of  which  her 
husband  might  well  be  proud.  He  stood  and  gazed  at  her 
in  frank  admiration  ;  only  when  she  sprang  forward  to  shake 
hands  with  Waymark  did  he  recover  himself  sufficiently  to 
go  through  the  ceremony  of  introducing  Julian.  It  was 
done  with  all  stateliness. 

"  An  improvement  this  on  the  masters'  room,  eh,  Way- 
mark  ? "  cried  Mr.  O'Gree.  Then,  suddenly  interrupting  him- 
self, "  And  that  reminds  me  !     We've  got  a  lodger." 

"  Already  1 " 

"  And  who  d'ye  think  1  Who  d'ye  think  1  You  wouldn't 
guess  if  you  went  on  till  Christmas.  Ho,  ho,  ho !  I'm 
hanged  if  I  tell  you.     Wait  and  see  ! " 

"  Shall  I  call  him  down  1 "  asked  Sally,  who  in  the  mean- 
time had  brought  in  the  tea-pot,  and  the  crumpets,  and  a 
dish  of  slices  from  the  round  of  beef  on  the  counter,  and 
boiled  eggs,  and  sundry  other  dainties. 

O'Gree,  unable  to  speak  for  mirth,  nodded  his  head,  and 
presently  Sally  returned,  followed  by— Mr.  Egger.  Way- 
mark  scarcely  recognised  his  old  friend,  so  much  had  the 
latter  changed :  instead  of  the  old  woe-begone  look,  Egger's 
face  wore  a  joyous  smile,  and  his  outer  man  was  so  vastly 
improved  that  he  had  evidently  fallen  on  a  more  lucrative 
profession.  Waymark  remembered  O'Gree's  chance  meeting 
with  the  Swiss,  but  had  heard  nothing  of  him  since ;  nor 
indeed  had  O'Gree  till  a  day  or  two  ago. 

"How  do  things  go?"  Waymark  inquired  heartily. 
*'  Found  a  better  school?" 


HOUSE-WARMING  285 

"Xo,  no,  my  friend,"  returned  Egger,  in  his  very  bad 
English.  "  At  the  school  I  made  my  possible ;  I  did  till 
I  could  no  more.  I  have  made  like  Mr.  O'Gree  ;  it  is  to  say, 
quite  a  change  in  my  life.  I  am  waiter  at  a  restaurant. 
And  see  me ;  am  I  not  the  better  quite?  No  fear  ! "  This 
cockney  ism  came  in  with  comical  effect.  "  I  have  enough 
to  eat  and  to  drink,  and  money  in  my  pocket.  The  school 
may  go  to " 

O'Gree  coughed  violently  to  cover  the  last  word,  and 
looked  reproachfully  at  his  old  colleague.  Poor  Egger,  who 
had  been  carried  away  by  his  joyous  fervour,  was  abashed, 
and  glanced  timidly  at  Sally,  who  replied  by  giving  him 
half  a  dozen  thick  rounds  of  German  sausage.  On  his 
requesting  mustard,  she  fetched  some  from  the  shop  and 
mixed  it,  but,  in  doing  so,  had  the  misfortune  to  pour 
too  much  water. 

"There  !  "  she  exclaimed  ;  "I've  douted  the  miller's  eye." 

O'Gree  laughed  when  he  saw  Waymark  looking  for  an 
explanation. 

"  That's  a  piece  of  Weymouth,"  he  remarked.  "  Mrs.  O'Gree 
comes  from  the  south-west  of  England,"  he  added,  leaning 
towards  Casti.  "Slie's  constantly  teaching  me  new  and  in- 
teresting things.     Now,  if  I  was  to  spill  the  salt  here " 

He  put  his  hand  on  the  salt-cellar,  as  if  to  do  so,  but  Sally 
rapped  his  knuckles  with  a  fork. 

"  None  of  your  nonsense,  sir  !  Give  Mr.  Casti  some  more 
meat,  instead." 

It  was  a  merry  party.  The  noise  of  talk  grew  so  loud  that 
it  was  only  the  keenness  of  habitual  attention  on  Sally's  part 
which  enabled  her  to  observe  that  a  customer  was  knocking 
on  the  counter.  She  darted  out,  but  returned  with  a  dis- 
appointed look  on  her  face. 

"Pickles'?"  asked  her  husband,  frowning. 

Sally  nodded. 

"Now,  look  here,  Waymark,"  cried  O'Gree,  rising  in  in- 
dignation from  his  seat.  "  Look  here,  Mr.  Casti.  The  one 
drop  of  bitterness  in  our  cup  is — ])ickles  ;  the  one  thing  that 
threatens  to  poison  our  happiness  is — pickles.  We're  always 
being  asked  for  pickles ;  just  as  if  the  people  knew  about  it, 
and  came  on  purpose  !  " 

"Knew  about  what?"  asked  Waymark,  in  astonishment. 

"  Why,  that  we  mayn't  sell  'em  !  A  few  doors  oflf  there's  a 
scoundrel  of  a  grocer.     Now,  his  landlord's  the  same  as  ours, 


286  THE  UNCLASSED 

and  when  we  took  this  shop  there  was  one  condition  attached. 
Because  the  grocer  sells  pickles,  and  makes  a  good  thing  of 
them,  we  had  to  undertake  that,  in  that  branch  of  commerce, 
we  wouldn't  compete  with  him.     Pickles  are  forbidden." 

Waymark  burst  into  a  most  unsympathetic  roar  of  laughter, 
but  with  O'Gree  the  grievance  was  evidently  a  serious  one,  and 
it  was  some  few  moments  before  he  recovered  his  equanimity. 
Indeed  it  was  not  quite  restored  till  the  entrance  of  another 
customer,  who  purchased  two  ounces  of  butter.  When,  in 
the  dead  silence  which  ensued,  Sally  was  heard  weighing  out 
the  order,  O'Gree's  face  beamed ;  and  when  there  followed 
the  chink  of  coins  in  the  till,  he  brought  his  fist  down  with 
a  triumphant  crash  upon  the  table. 

When  tea  was  over,  O'Gree  managed  to  get  Waymark 
apart  from  the  rest,  and  showed  him  a  small  photograph  of 
Sally  which  had  recently  been  taken. 

"Sally's  great  ambition,"  he  whispered,  "is  to  be  taken 
cabinet-size,  and  in  a  snow-etorm.  You've  seen  the  kind  of 
thing  in  the  shop-windows  1  We'll  manage  that  before  long, 
but  this  will  do  for  the  present.  You  don't  see  a  face  like 
that  every  day ;  eh,  Waymark  1 " 

Sally,  her  housewifery  duly  accomplished  in  the  invisible 
regions,  came  back  and  sat  by  the  fireside.  She  had  exchanged 
her  work-a-day  costume  for  one  rather  more  ornate.  Notice- 
able was  a  delicate  gold  chain  which  hung  about  her  neck, 
and  Waymark  smiled  when  he  presently  saw  her  take  out  her 
watch  and  seem  to  compare  its  time  with  that  of  the  clock  on 
the  mantelpiece.     It  was  a  wedding  present  from  Ida. 

Sally  caught  the  smile,  and  almost  immediately  came  over 
to  a  seat  by  Waymark ;  and,  whilst  the  others  were  engaged 
in  loud  talk,  spoke  with  him  privately. 

"Have  you  seen  her  lately?"  she  asked. 

"  Not  for  some  weeks,"  the  other  replied,  shaking  his  head. 

"  Well,  it's  the  queerest  thing  I  ever  knew,  s'nough ! 
But,  there,"  she  added,  with  an  arch  glance,  "  some  men  are 
that  stupid " 

Waymark  laughed  slightly,  and  again  shook  his  head. 

"  All  a  mistake,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  that's  just  what  it  is,  you  may  depend  upon  it.  I 
more'n  half  believe  you're  telUng  fibs." 

Tumblers  of  whisky  were  soon  smoking  on  the  table,  and 
all  except  Casti  laughed  and  talked  to  their  heart's  content. 
Casti  was  no  kill-joy ;  he  smiled  at  all  that  went  on,  i^ow  and 


HOUSE-WARMING  287 

then  putting  in  a  friendly  word  ;  but  the  vitality  of  the  others 
was  lacking  in  him,  and  the  weight  which  crushed  him  night 
and  day  could  not  so  easily  be  thrown  aside.  O'Gree  was 
abundant  in  reminiscences  of  academic  days,  and  it  would 
not  have  been  easy  to  resist  altogether  the  comical  vigour  of 
his  stories,  all  without  one  touch  of  real  bitterness  or  malice. 

"Bedad,"  he  cried,  "I  sent  old  Pendy  a  business  pro- 
spectus, with  my  compliments  written  on  the  bottom  of  it. 
I  thought  he  might  perhaps  be  disposed  to  give  me  a  con- 
tract for  victualling  the  Academy.  I  wish  he  had,  for  the 
boys'  sake." 

Then,  to  bring  back  completely  the  old  times,  Mr.  Egger 
was  prevailed  upon  to  sing  one  of  his  Volkslieder,  that  which 
had  been  Waymark's  especial  favourite,  and  which  he  had 
sung — on  an  occasion  memorable  to  Sally  and  her  husband 
— in  the  Httle  dining-room  at  Richmond. 

**  Die  SchwalVn  flie^n  fort,  dock  sie  zieh'n  wieder  her; 
Der  Mensch  wenn  erfortgeht,  «r  kommt  nimmermehri" 

Waymark  was  silent  for  a  little  after  that 

When  it  was  nearly  eleven  o'clock,  Casti  looked  once  or 
twice  meaningly  at  Waymark,  and  the  friends  at  length 
rose  to  take  their  leave,  in  spite  of  much  protest.  O'Gree 
accompanied  them  as  far  as  the  spot  where  they  would  meet 
the  omnibus,  then,  with  assurances  that  to-night  had  been 
but  the  beginning  of  glorious  times,  sent  them  on  their  way. 
Julian  was  silent  during  the  journey  home ;  he  looked  very 
wearied.  For  lack  of  a  timely  conveyance  the  last  mile  or 
so  had  to  be  walked.  Julian's  cough  had  been  bad  during 
the  evening,  and  now  the  cold  night-air  seemed  to  give  him 
much  trouble.  Presently,  just  as  they  turned  a  corner,  a 
severe  blast  of  wind  met  them  full  in  the  face.  .  Julian 
began  coughing  violently,  and  all  at  once  became  so  weak 
that  he  had  to  lean  against  a  palisading.  Waymark,  looking 
closer  in  alarm,  saw  that  the  handkerchief  which  the  poor 
fellow  was  holding  to  his  mouth  was  covered  with  blood. 

"We  must  have  a  cab,"  he  exclaimed.  "It  is  impossible 
for  you  to  walk  in  this  state." 

Julian  resisted,  with  assurances  that  the  worst  was  over 
for  the  time.  If  Waymark  would  give  the  support  of  his 
arm,  he  would  get  on  quite  well.  There  was  no  overcoming 
his  resolution  to  proceed. 


288  THE  UNCLASSED 

"  There's  no  misunderstanding  this,  old  fellow,"  he  said, 
with  a  laugh,  when  they  had  walked  a  few  paces. 

Waymark  made  no  reply. 

"  You'll  laugh  at  me,"  Julian  went  on,  "  but  isn't  there  a 
certain  resemblance,  between  my  case  and  that  of  Keats  ? 
He  too  was  a  drug-pounder ;  he  liked  it  as  little  as  I  do ; 
and  he  died  young  of  consumption.  I  suppose  a  dying  man 
may  speak  the  truth  about  himself.  I  too  might  have  been 
a  poet,  if  life  had  dealt  more  kindly  with  me.  I  think  you 
would  have  liked  the  thing  I  was  writing ;  I'd  finished  some 
three  hundred  lines ;  but  now  you'll  never  see  it.  Well,  I 
don't  know  that  it  matters." 

Waymark  tried  to  speak  in  a  tone  of  hopefulness,  but  it 
was  hard  to  give  his  words  the  semblance  of  sincerity. 

"  Uo  you  remember,"  Casti  continued,  "  when  all  my  talk 
used  to  be  about  Rome,  and  how  I  planned  to  see  it  one  day 
— see  it  again,  I  should  say  1  Strange  to  think  that  I  really 
was  born  in  Eome.  I  used  to  call  myself  a  Roman,  you 
know,  and  grow  hot  with  pride  when  I  thought  of  it.  Those 
were  dreams.  Oh,  I  was  to  do  wonderful  things !  Poetry 
was  to  make  me  rich,  and  then  I  would  go  and  live  in  Italy, 
and  fill  my  lungs  with  the  breath  of  the  Forum,  and  write 
my  great  Epic.     How  good  that  we  can't  foresee  our  lives  ! " 

"  I  wish  to  heaven,"  Waymark  exclaimed,  when  they  were 
parting,  "  that  you  would  be  a  man  and  shake  this  monstrous 
yoke  from  off  your  neck !  It  is  that  that  is  killing  you. 
Give  yourself  a  chance.  Defy  everything  and  make  your- 
self free." 

Julian  shook  his  head  sadly. 

"  Too  late  !  I  haven't  the  courage.  My  mind  weakens 
with  my  body." 

He  went  to  his  lodgings,  and,  as  he  anticipated,  found 
that  Harriet  had  not  yet  come  home.  She  was  almost 
always  out  very  late,  and  he  had  learnt  too  well  what  to 
expect  on  her  return.  In  spite  of  her  illness,  of  which  she 
made  the  most  when  it  suited  her  purpose,  she  was  able  to 
wander  about  at  all  hours  with  the  acquaintances  her  husband 
did  not  even  know  by  name,  and  Julian  had  no  longer  the 
strength  even  to  implore  her  to  have  pity  on  him.  Her 
absence  racked  him  witli  nervous  fears  ;  her  presence  tortured 
him  to  agony.  Weakness  in  him  had  reached  a  criminal 
degree.  Once  or  twice  he  had  all  but  made  up  his  mind  to 
flee  secretly,  and  only  let  her  know  his  determination  when 


HOUSE-WARMING  289 

he  had  gone ;  but  his  poverty  interposed  such  obstacles  that 
he  ended  by  accepting  them  as  excuses  for  his  hesitation. 
The  mere  thought  of  fulfilling  the  duty  which  he  owed  to 
himself,  of  speaking  out  with  manly  firmness,  and  telling 
her  that  here  at  length  all  ended  between  them — that  was  a 
terror  to  his  soul.  So  he  stayed  on  and  allowed  her  to  kill 
him  by  slow  torment.  He  was  at  least  carrying  out  to  the 
letter  the  promise  he  had  made  to  her  father,  and  this  thought 
supplied  him  with  a  flattering  unction  which,  such  was  his 
disposition,  at  times  even  brought  him  a  moment's  solace. 

There  was  no  fire  in  the  room  ;  he  sank  upon  a  chair  and 
waited.  Every  sound  in  the  street  below  sent  the  blood 
back  upon  his  heart.  At  length  there  came  the  fumbling 
of  a  latch-key — he  could  hear  it  plainly — and  then  the 
heavy  foot  ascending  the  stairs.  Her  glazed  eyes  and  red 
cheeks  told  the  familiar  tale.  She  sat  down  opposite  him 
and  was  silent  for  a  minute,  half  dozing ;  then  she  seemed 
suddenly  to  become  conscious  of  his  presence,  and  the  words 
began  to  flow  from  her  tongue,  every  one  cutting  him  to  the 
quick,  poisoning  his  soul  with  their  venom  of  jealousy  and 
vulgar  spite.  Contention  was  the  breath  of  her  nostrils ; 
the  prime  impulse  of  her  heart  was  suspicion.  Little  by 
little  she  came  round  to  the  wonted  topic.  Had  he  Ijeen  to 
see  his  friend  the  thief  ?  "Was  she  in  prison  again  yet  ? 
Whom  had  she  been  stealing  from  of  late?  Oh,  she  was 
innocence  itself,  of  course;  too  good  for  this  evil-speaking 
world. 

To-night  he  could  not  bear  it.  He  rose  from  his  chair 
like  a  drunken  man,  and  staggered  to  the  door.  She  sprang 
after  him,  but  he  was  just  in  time  to  escape  her  grasp  and 
spring  down  the  stairs ;  then,  out  into  the  night.  Once 
before,  not  quite  a  month  ago,  he  had  been  driven  thus  in 
terror  from  the  sound  of  her  voice,  and  had  slept  at  a  coffee- 
house. Now,  as  soon  as  he  had  got  out  of  the  street  and 
saw  that  he  was  not  being  pursued,  he  discovered  that  he 
had  given  away  his  last  copper  for  the  omnibus  fare.  No 
matter;  the  air  was  pleasant  upon  his  throbbing  temples. 
It  was  too  late  to  think  of  knocking  at  the  house  where 
"Waymark  lodged.  Nothing  remained  but  to  walk  about 
the  streets  all  night,  resting  on  a  stone  when  he  became  too 
weary  to  go  further,  sheltering  a  little  here  or  there  when 
the  wind  cut  him  too  keenly.  Eather  this,  oh,  a  thousand 
times  rather,  than  the  hell  behind  him. 

T 


290  THE  UNCLASSED 

CHAPTEE    XXXVI 

NO  WAY  BUT  THIS 

In  the  early  days  of  October,  Waymark's  book  appeared.  It 
excited  no  special  attention.  Here  and  there  a  reviewer  was 
found  who  ventured  to  hint  that  there  was  powerful  writing 
in  this  new  novel,  but  no  one  dared  to  heartily  recommend 
it  to  public  attention.  By  some  it  was  classed  with  the 
"unsavoury  productions  of  the  so-called  naturalist  school;" 
others  passed  it  by  with  a  few  lines  of  unfavourable  com- 
ment. Clearly  it  was  destined  to  brmg  the  author  neither 
fame  nor  fortune. 

Waymark  was  surprised  at  his  own  indifference.  Having 
given  a  copy  to  Casti,  and  one  to  Maud,  he  thought  very  little 
more  of  the  production.  It  had  ceased  to  interest  him  ;  he 
felt  that  if  he  were  to  write  again  it  would  be  in  a  very  dif- 
ferent way  and  of  different  people.  Even  when  he  prided 
himself  most  upon  his  self-knowledge  he  had  been  most 
ignorant  of  the  direction  in  which  his  character  was  develop- 
ing. Unconsciously,  he  had  struggled  to  the  extremity  of 
weariness,  and  now  he  cared  only  to  let  things  take  tlieir 
course,  standing  aside  from  every  shadow  of  new  onset. 
Above  all,  he  kept  away  as  much  as  possible  from  the  house 
at  Tottenham,  where  Ida  was  still  living.  To  go  there  meant 
only  a  renewal  of  torment.  This  was  in  fact  the  common- 
place period  of  his  life.  He  had  no  energy  above  that  of  the 
ordinary  young  man  who  is  making  his  living  in  a  common- 
place way,  and  his  higher  faculties  lay  dormant. 

In  one  respect,  and  that,  after  all,  perhaps  the  most  im- 
portant, his  position  would  soon  be  changed.  Mr.  "Wood- 
stock's will,  when  affairs  were  settled,  would  make  him  richer 
by  one  thousand  pounds ;  he  might,  if  he  chose,  presently 
give  up  his  employment,  and  either  trust  to  literature,  or  look 
out  for  something  less  precarious.  A  year  ago,  this  state  of 
things  would  have  filled  him  with  exultation.  As  it  was,  he 
only  saw  in  it  an  accident  compelling  him  to  a  certain  fateful 
duty.  There  was  now  no  reason  why  his  marriage  should  be 
long  delayed.  For  Maud's  sake  the  step  was  clearly  desirable. 
At  present  she  and  her  mother  were  living  with  Miss  Bygrave 
in  the  weird  old  house.  Of  Paul  there  had  come  no  tidings. 
Their  home  was  pf  course  broken  up,  and  they  bad  no  in- 


NO  WAY  BUT  THIS  291 

come  of  their  own  to  depend  upon.  Maud  herself,  though 
of  course  aware  of  Waymark's  prospects,  seemed  to  shrink 
from  speaking  of  the  future.  She  grew  more  and  more  un- 
certain as  to  her  real  thoughts  and  desires. 

And  what  of  Ida  1  It  was  hard  for  her  to  realise  her  posi- 
tion ;  for  a  time  she  was  conscious  only  of  an  overwhelming 
sense  of  loneliness.  The  interval  of  life  with  her  grandfather 
was  dreamlike  as  she  looked  back  upon  it;  yet  harder  to  grasp 
was  the  situation  in  which  she  now  found  herself,  surrounded 
by  luxuries  which  had  come  to  her  as  if  from  the  clouds,  her 
own  mistress,  free  to  form  wishes  merely  for  the  sake  of  satis- 
fying them.  She  cared  little  to  realise  the  minor  possibilities 
of  wealth.  The  great  purpose,  the  noble  end  to  which  her 
active  life  had  shaped  itself,  was  sternly  present  before  her ; 
she  would  not  shirk  its  demands.  But  there  was  lacking  the 
inspiration  of  joy.  Could  she  harden  herself  to  every  per- 
sonal desire,  and  forget,  in  devotion  to  others,  the  sickness  of 
one  great  hope  deferred?     Did  her  ideal  require  this  of  her? 

Would  he  come,  now  that  she  was  free  to  give  herself 
where  she  would,  now  that  she  was  so  alone  ?  The  distance 
between  them  had  increased  ever  since  the  beginning  of  her 
new  life.  She  knew  well  the  sort  of  pride  he  was  capable 
of ;  but  was  there  not  something  else,  something  she  dreaded 
to  observe  too  closely,  in  the  manner  of  his  speech  ?  Did 
he  think  so  meanly  of  her  as  to  deem  such  precautions 
necessary  against  her  misconstruction  ?  Nay,  could  he  have 
guarded  himself  in  that  way  if  he  really  loved  her  ?  "Would 
it  not  have  been  to  degrade  her  too  much  in  his  own 
eyes? 

He  loved  her  once.  Had  she  in  any  way  grown  less  noble 
in  his  eyes,  by  those  very  things  which  she  regarded  as  help 
and  strengthening?  Did  he  perchance  think  she  had  too 
readily  accepted  ease  when  it  was  offered  her,  sacrificing  the 
independence  which  he  most  regarded  ?  If  so,  all  the  more 
would  he  shrink  from  losing  for  her  his  own  independence. 

She  imagined  herself  wedded  to  him ;  at  liberty  to  stand 
before  him  and  confess  all  the  thoughts  which  now  consumed 
her  in  the  silence  of  vain  longing.  "  Why  did  I  break  free 
from  the  fetters  of  a  shameful  life  ?  Because  I  loved,  and 
loved  you.  What  gave  me  the  strength  to  pass  from  idle 
luxury,  j)oisoning  the  energies  of  the  soul,  to  that  life  of 
lonely  toil  and  misery  1     ^y  love,  and  my  love  fo^  you.     I 


292  THE  UNCLASSED 

kept  apart  from  you  then ;  I  would  not  even  let  you  know 
what  I  was  enduring ;  only  hecause  you  had  spoken  a  hasty, 
thoughtless  word  to  me,  which  showed  me  with  terrihle 
distinctness  the  meaning  of  all  I  had  escaped,  and  filled  me 
with  a  determination  to  prove  to  myself  that  I  had  not  lost 
all  my  hetter  nature,  that  there  was  still  enough  of  purity  in 
my  heing  to  save  me  finally.  What  was  it  that  afflicted  me 
witii  agony  beyond  all  words  when  I  was  made  the  victim 
of  a  cruel  and  base  accusation?  Not  the  fear  of  its  con- 
sequences ;  only  the  dread  lest  you  should  believe  me  guilty, 
and  no  longer  deem  me  worthy  of  a  thought.  It  is  no 
arrogance  to  say  that  I  am  become  a  pure  woman ;  not  my 
own  merits,  but  love  of  you  has  made  me  so.  I  love  you  as 
a  woman  loves  only  once ;  if  you  asked  me  to  give  up  my 
life  to  prove  it,  I  am  capable  of  doing  no  less  a  thing  than 
that.  Flesh  and  spirit  I  lay  before  you — all  yours ;  do  you 
still  think  the  offering  unworthy  ? " 

And  yet  she  knew  that  she  could  never  thus  speak  to 
him ;  her  humility  was  too  great.  At  moments  she  might 
feel  this  glow  of  conscious  virtue,  but  for  the  most  part  the 
weight  of  all  the  past  was  so  heavy  upon  her. 

Fortunately,  her  time  did  not  long  remain  unoccupied. 
As  her  grandfather's  heiress  she  found  herself  owner  of  the 
East-end  property,  and,  as  soon  as  it  was  assured  that  she 
would  incur  no  danger,  she  went  over  the  houses  in  the 
company  of  the  builder  whom  Abraham  had  chosen  to  carry 
out  his  proposed  restorations.  The  improvements  were  pro- 
ceeded with  at  once,  greatly  to  the  astonishment  of  the 
tenants,  to  whom  such  changes  inevitably  suggested  increase 
of  rent.  These  fears  Ida  did  her  best  to  dispel.  Dressed 
in  the  simplest  possible  way,  and  with  that  kind,  quiet 
manner  which  was  natural  to  her,  she  went  about  from  room 
to  room,  and  did  her  best  to  become  intimately  acquainted 
with  the  woman-kind  of  the  Lane  and  the  Court.  It  was 
not  an  easy  end  to  compass.  She  was  received  at  first  with 
extreme  suspicion ;  her  appearance  aroused  that  distrust 
which  with  the  uneducated  attaches  to  everything  novel. 
In  many  instances  she  found  it  difhcult  to  get  it  believed 
that  she  was  reaUy  the  "landlord."  But  when  this  idea 
had  been  gradually  mastered,  and  when,  moreover,  it  was 
discovered  that  she  brought  no  tracts,  spoke  not  at  all  of 
religious  matters,  was  not  impertinently  curious,  and  showed 
indeed  that  she  knew  a  good  deal  of  what  she  talked  about, 


NO  WAY  BUT  THIS 


293 


something  like  respect  for  her  began  to  spring  up  here  and 
there,  and  she  was  spoken  of  as  "  the  right  sort." 

Ida  was  excellently  fitted  for  the  work  she  had  under- 
taken. She  knew  so  well,  from  her  own  early  experience, 
the  nature  of  the  people  with  whom  she  was  brought  in 
contact,  and  had  that  instinctive  sympathy  with  their  Lives 
without  which  it  is  so  vain  to  attempt  practical  social  re- 
form. She  started  with  no  theory,  and  as  yet  had  no 
very  definite  end  in  view ;  it  simply  appeared  to  her  that, 
as  owner  of  these  slums,  honesty  and  regard  for  her  own 
credit  required  that  she  should  make  them  decent  human 
habitations,  and  give  what  other  help  she  could  to  jieople 
obviously  so  much  in  need  of  it.  The  best  was  that  she 
understood  how  and  when  such  help  could  be  afforded. 
To  native  practicality  and  prudence  she  added  a  keen 
recollection  of  the  wants  and  difficulties  she  had  struggled 
through  in  childhood :  there  was  no  danger  of  her  being 
foolishly  lavish  in  charity,  when  she  could  foresee  with 
sympathy  all  the  evil  results  which  would  ensue.  Her 
only  temptation  to  imprudence  was  when,  as  so  often 
happened,  she  saw  some  little  girl  in  a  position  which  re- 
minded her  strongly  of  her  own  dark  days ;  all  such  she 
would  have  liked  to  take  home  with  her  and  somehow 
provide  for,  saving  them  from  the  wretched  alternatives 
which  were  all  that  life  had  to  offer  them.  So,  little  by 
little,  she  was  brought  to  think  in  a  broader  way  of  problems 
puzzling  enough  to  wiser  heads  than  hers.  Social  miseries, 
which  she  had  previously  regarded  as  mere  matters  of  fact, 
having  never  enjoyed  the  opportunities  of  comparison  which 
alone  can  present  them  in  any  other  light,  began  to  move  her 
to  indignation.  Often  it  was  with  a  keen  sense  of  shame 
that  she  took  the  weekly  rent,  a  sum  scraped  together 
Heaven  knew  how,  representing  so  much  deduction  from  the 
food  of  the  family.  She  knew  that  it  would  be  impossible 
to  remit  the  rent  altogether,  but  at  all  events  there  was  the 
power  of  reducing  it,  and  this  she  did  in  many  cases. 

The  children  she  came  to  regard  as  her  peculiar  care.  Her 
strong  common  sense  taught  her  that  it  was  with  these  that 
most  could  be  done.  The  parents  could  not  be  reformed ;  at 
best  they  might  be  kept  from  that  darkest  depth  of  poverty 
which  corrupts  soul  and  body  alike.  But  might  not  the  girls 
be  somehow  put  into  the  way  of  earning  a  decent  livelihood  ? 
Ida  knew  so  well  the  effect  upon  them  of  the  occupations  to 


S94  THE  UNCLASSED 

which  they  mostly  turned,  occupations  degrading  to  woman- 
hood, blighting  every  hope.  Even  to  give  them  the  means 
of  remaining  at  home  would  not  greatly  help  them ;  there 
they  still  breathed  a  vile  atmosphere.  To  remove  them 
altogether  was  the  only  efficient  way,  and  how  could  that  be 
done  ? 

The  months  of  late  summer  and  autumn  saw  several  more 
garden-parties.  These,  Ida  knew,  were  very  useful,  but  more 
enduring  things  must  be  devised.  Miss  Hurst  was  the  only 
person  with  whom  she  could  consult,  and  that  lady's  notions 
were  not  very  practical.  If  only  she  could  have  spoken 
freely  with  Waymark ;  but  that  she  could  no  longer  on  any 
subject,  least  of  all  on  this.  As  winter  set  in,  he  had  almost 
forsaken  her.  He  showed  no  interest  in  her  life,  beyond 
asking  occasionally  what  she  was  reading,  and  taking  the 
opportunity  to  talk  of  books.  Throughout  November  she 
neither  saw  him  nor  heard  from  him.  Then  one  evening  he 
came. 

She  was  alone  when  the  servant  announced  him ;  with  her 
sat  her  old  companion.  Grim.  As  Waymark  entered,  she 
looked  at  him  with  friendly  smile,  and  said  quietly — 

"I  thought  you  would  never  come  again." 

*'  I  have  not  kept  away  through  thoughtlessness,"  he  re- 
plied. "  Believe  that ;  it  is  the  truth.  And  to-night  I  have 
only  come  to  say  good-bye.     I  am  going  to  leave  London." 

"  You  used  to  say  nothing  would  induce  you  to  leave 
London,  and  that  you  couldn't  live  anywhere  else." 

"  Yes ;  that  was  one  of  my  old  fancies.  I  am  going  right 
away  into  the  country,  at  all  events  for  a  year  or  two.  I 
suj)pose  I  shall  write  novels." 

He  moved  uneasily  under  her  gaze,  and  affected  a  cheerful- 
ness which  could  not  deceive  her. 

"  Has  your  book  been  a  success  1 "  Ida  asked. 

"No;  it  fell  dead." 

"  Why  didn't  you  give  me  a  copy  ? " 

"  I  thought  too  Httle  of  it.  It's  poor  stuff.  Better  you 
shouldn't  read  it." 

"  But  I  have  read  it." 

"Got  it  from  the  library,  did  you?" 

"  No  ;  I  bought  it." 

"What  a  pity  to  waste  so  much  money !" 

"  Why  do  you  speak  like  that  ?  You  know  how  anything 
of  yours  would  interest  me." 


NO  WAY  BUT  THIS  295 

"Oil  yes,  in  a  certain  way,  of  noiii-Re." 

"  For  its  own  sake,  too.  I  can't  r.iiiicise,  but  I  know  it 
held  me  as  nothing  else  ever  did.  It  was  horrible  in  many 
parts,  but  I  was  the  better  for  reading  it." 

He  could  not  help  showing  pleasure,  and  grew  more 
natural.  Ida  had  purposely  refrained  from  speaking  of  the 
book  when  she  read  it,  more  than  a  month  ago,  always 
hoi)ing  that  he  would  be  the  first  to  say  something  about  it. 
But  the  news  he  had  brought  her  to-night  put  an  end  to 
reticence  on  her  side.  She  must  speak  out  her  heart,  cost 
her  what  it  might. 

"Who  should  read  it,  if  not  I?"  she  said,  as  he  remained 
silent.  "Who  can  possibly  understand  it  half  so  well  as 
I  do?" 

"  Yes,"  he  remarked,  with  wilful  misunderstanding,  "  you 
have  seen  the  places  and  the  people.  And  I  hear  you  are 
going  on  with  the  work  your  grandfather  began  ? " 

"  I  am  trying  to  do  something.  If  you  had  been  able  to 
give  me  a  little  time  now  and  then,  I  should  have  asked  you 
to  advise  and  help  me.  It  is  hard  to  work  there  single- 
handed." 

"  You  are  too  good  for  that ;  I  should  have  liked  to  think 
of  you  as  far  apart  from  those  vile  scenes," 

"  Too  good  for  it  1 "  Her  voice  trembled,  "  How  can  any 
one  be  too  good  to  help  the  miserable  ?  If  you  had  said  that 
I  was  not  worthy  of  such  a  privilege —  Can  you,  knowing 
me  as  no  one  else  does  or  ever  will,  think  that  I  could  live 
here  in  peace,  whilst  those  poor  creatures  stint  and  starve 
themselves  every  week  to  provide  me  with  comforts?  Do  I 
seem  to  you  such  a  woman  ? " 

He  only  smiled,  his  lips  tortured  to  hold  their  peace, 

"I  had  hoped  you  understood  me  better  than  that.  Is 
that  why  you  have  left  me  to  myself  ?  Do  you  doubt  my 
sincerity  ?  Why  do  you  speak  so  cruelly,  saying  I  am  too 
good,  when  your  real  thoughts  must  be  so  different  ?  You 
mean  that  I  am  incapable  of  really  doing  anything ;  you  have 
no  faith  in  me.  I  seem  to  you  too  weak  to  pursue  any  high 
end.  You  would  not  even  speak  to  me  of  your  book,  because 
you  felt  I  should  not  appreciate  it.  And  yet  you  do  know 
me " 

"Yes;  I  know  you  well,"  Waymark  said. 

Ida  looked  steadily  at  him.  "  If  you  are  speaking  to  me 
for  the  last  time,  won't  you  be  sincere,  and  tell  me  of  my 


296  THE  UNCLASSED 

faults?  Do  you  tliink  I  could  not  bear  it?  You  can  say 
nothing  to  me — nothing  from  your  heart — that  I  won't  accept 
in  all  humility.     Are  we  no  longer  even  friends  ? " 

"  You  mistake  me  altogether." 

"And  you  are  still  my  friend?"  she  uttered  warmly. 
"  But  why  do  you  think  me  unfit  for  good  work  ? " 

"I  had  no  such  thought.  You  know  how  my  ideals 
oppose  each  other.  I  spoke  on  the  impulse  of  the  moment ; 
I  often  find  it  so  hard  to  reconcile  myself  to  anything  in  life 
that  is  not  still  and  calm  and  beautiful.  I  am  just  now  bent 
on  forgetting  all  the  things  about  which  you  are  so  earnest." 

"Earnest?  Yes.  But  I  cannot  give  my  whole  self  to  the 
work.     I  am  so  lonely." 

"  You  will  not  be  so  for  long,"  he  answered  with  more 
cheerfulness.  "  You  have  every  opportunity  of  making  for 
yourself  a  good  social  position.  You  will  soon  have  friends, 
if  only  you  seek  them.  Your  goodness  will  make  you  re- 
spected. Indeed  I  wonder  at  your  remaining  so  isolated. 
It  need  not  be ;  I  am  sure  it  need  not.  Your  wealth — I  have 
no  thought  of  speaking  cynically — your  wealth  must " 

"  My  wealth  !  What  is  it  to  me  ?  What  do  I  care  for  all 
the  friends  it  might  bring  ?  They  are  nothing  to  me  in  my 
misery.  But  you  ...  I  would  give  all  I  possess  for  one 
kind  word  from  you." 

Flushing  over  forehead  and  cheeks,  she  compelled  herself 
to  meet  his  look.  It  was  her  wealth  that  stood  between  her 
and  him.  Her  position  was  not  like  that  of  other  women. 
Conventionalities  were  meaningless,  set  against  a  life. 

"  I  have  tried  hard  to  make  myself  ever  so  little  worthy 
of  you,"  she  murmured,  when  her  voice  would  again  obey 
her  will.     "Am  I  still — still  too  far  beneath  you?" 

He  stood  like  one  detected  in  a  crime,  and  stammered  the 
words. 

"  Ida,  I  am  not  free." 

He  had  risen.     Ida  sprang  up,  and  moved  towards  him. 

** This  was  your  secret?  Tell  me,  then.  Look — /  am 
strong !  Tell  me  about  it.  I  might  have  thought  of  this. 
I  thought  only  of  myself.  I  might  have  known  there' was 
good  reason  for  the  distance  you  put  between  us.  Forgive 
me — oh,  forgive  the  pain  I  have  caused  you  ! " 

"  You  asking  for  forgiveness  ?    How  you  must  despise  me." 

"  Why  should  I  despise  you  ?  You  have  never  said  a  word 
to  me  that  any  friend,  any  near  friend,  might  not  have  said, 


NO  WAY  BUT  THIS  297 

never  since  I  myself,  in  mj  folly,  forbade  you  to.  You  were 
not  bound  to  tell  me " 

"  I  had  told  your  grandfather,"  Waymark  said  in  a  broken 
voice.  "  In  a  letter  I  wrote  the  very  day  he  was  taken  ill,  I 
begged  him  to  let  you  know  that  I  had  bound  myself." 

As  he  spoke  he  knew  that  he  was  excusing  himself  with  a 
truth  which  implied  a  falsehood,  and  before  it  was  too  late 
his  soul  revolted  against  the  unworthiness. 

"  But  it  was  my  own  fault  that  it  was  left  so  long.  I  would 
not  let  him  tell  you  when  he  wished  to ;  I  put  off  the  day  as 
long  as  I  could." 

"Since  you  first  knew  me?"  she  asked,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  No  !     Since  you  came  to  live  here.     I  was  free  before." 

It  was  the  part  of  his  confession  which  cost  him  most  to 
utter,  and  the  hearing  of  it  chilled  Ida's  heart.  Whilst  she 
had  been  living  through  her  bitterest  shame  and  misery,  he 
had  given  his  love  to  another  woman,  forgetful  of  her.  For 
the  first  time,  weakness  overcame  her. 

**  I  thought  you  loved  me,"  she  sobbed,  bowing  her  head. 

"I  did — and  I  do.  I  can't  understand  myself,  and  it 
would  be  worse  than  vain  to  try  to  show  you  how  it  came 
about.  I  have  brought  a  curse  upon  my  life,  and  worse  than 
my  own  despair  is  your  misery." 

"  Is  she  a  good  woman  you  are  going  to  marry  1 "  Ida  asked 
simply  and  kindly. 

"Only  less  noble  than  yourself." 

"  And  she  loves  you — no,  she  cannot  love  as  I  do — but  she 
loves  you  worthily  and  with  all  her  soul  t " 

"Worthily  and  with  all  her  soul — the  greater  my  despair." 

"  Then  I  dare  not  think  of  her  one  unkind  thought.  We 
must  remember  her,  and  be  strong  for  her  sake.  You  will 
leave  London  and  forget  me  soon, — yes,  yes,  you  will  fry  to 
forget  me.     You  owe  it  to  her ;  it  is  your  duty." 

"  Duty  ! "  he  broke  out  passionately.  "  What  have  I  to 
do  with  duty?  Was  it  not  my  duty  to  be  true  to  you? 
Was  it  not  my  duty  to  confess  my  hateful  weakness,  when  I 
had  taken  the  fatal  step  ?  Duty  has  no  meaning  for  me.  I 
have  set  it  aside  at  every  turn.  Even  now  there  would  be 
no  obligation  on  me  to  keep  my  word,  but  that  I  am  too 
great  a  coward  to  revoke  it." 

She  stood  near  to  him. 

"  Dear, — I  will  call  you  so,  it  is  for  the  last  time, — you 
think  these  things  in  the  worst  moment  of  our  suffering; 


298  THE  UNCLASSED 

afterwards  you  will  thank  me  for  having  been  strong  enough, 
or  cold  enough,  to  be  your  conscience.  There  is  such  a  thing 
as  duty ;  it  speaks  in  your  heart  and  in  mine,  and  tells  us 
that  we  must  part." 

*'  You  speak  so  lightly  of  parting.  If  you  felt  all  that  I " 

"My  love  is  no  shadow  less  than  yours,"  she  said,  with 
earnestness  which  was  well  nigh  severity.  "I  have  never 
wavered  from  you  since  I  knew  you  first." 

"Ida!" 

"  I  meant  no  reproach,  but  it  will  perhaps  help  you  to  think 
of  that.  You  did  love  her,  if  it  was  only  for  a  day,  and  that 
love  will  return." 

She  moved  from  him,  and  he  too  rose. 

"You  shame  me,"  he  said,  under  his  breath.  "I  am  not 
worthy  to  touch  your  hand." 

"  Yes,"  she  returned,  smiling  amid  her  tears,  "  very  worthy 
of  all  the  love  I  have  given  you,  and  of  the  love  with  which 
she  will  make  you  happy.  I  shaU  suffer,  but  the  thought  of 
your  happiness  will  help  me  to  bear  up  and  try  to  live  a  life 
you  would  not  call  ignoble.  You  will  do  great  things,  and  I 
shall  hear  of  them,  and  be  glad.  Yes  ;  I  know  that  is  before 
you.  You  are  one  of  those  who  cannot  rest  till  they  have 
won  a  high  place.     I,  too,  have  my  work,  and " 

Her  voice  failed- 

"  Shall  we  never  see  each  other  again,  Ida  ? " 

"  Perhaps.  In  a  few  years  we  might  meet,  and  be  friends. 
But  I  dare  not  think  of  that  now." 

They  clasped  hands,  for  one  dread  moment  resisted  the 
lure  of  eyes  and  lips,  and  so  parted. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

FORBIDDEN 

December  was  half  through,  and  it  was  the  eve  of  Maud 
Enderby's  marriage-day.  Everything  was  ready  for  the 
morrow.  Waymark  had  been  away  in  the  South,  and  the 
house  to  which  he  would  take  his  wife  now  awaited  their 
coming. 

It  was  a  foggy  night.  Maud  had  been  for  an  hour  to  Our 
Lady  of  the  Rosary,  and  found  it  difficult  to  make  her  way 
back.     The  street-lamps  were  mere  luminous  blurs  upon  the 


FORBIDDEN  299 

clinging  darkness,  and  the  suspension  of  the  wonted  traffic 
made  the  air  strangely  stilL  It  was  cold,  that  kind  of  cold 
which  wraps  the  limbs  like  a  cloth  soaked  in  icy  water. 
When  she  knocked  at  the  door  of  her  aunt's  house,  and  it 
was  opened  to  her,  wreaths  of  mist  swept  in  and  hung  about 
the  lighted  haU.  It  seemed  colder  within  than  without. 
Footsteps  echoed  here  in  the  old  way,  and  voices  lost  them- 
selves in  a  muffled  resonance  along  the  bare  white  walls. 
The  house  was  more  tomb-like  than  ever  on  such  a  night  as 
thia  To  Maud's  eyes  the  intruding  fog  shaped  itself  into 
ghostly  visages,  which  looked  upon  her  Avith  weird  and 
woeful  compassion.  She  shuddered,  and  hastened  upstairs 
to  her  mother's  room. 

After  her  husband's  disappearance,  Mrs.  Enderby  had 
passed  her  days  in  a  morbid  apathy,  contrasting  strangely 
with  the  restless  excitement  which  had  so  long  possessed 
her.  But  a  change  came  over  her  from  the  day  when  she 
was  told  of  Maud's  approaching  marriage.  It  was  her 
delight  to  have  Maud  sit  by  her  bed,  or  her  couch,  and  talk 
over  the  details  of  the  wedding  and  the  new  life  that  would 
follow  upon  it.  Her  interest  in  Waymark,  which  had  fallen 
off  during  the  past  half-year,  all  at  once  revived ;  she  con- 
versed with  him  as  she  had  been  used  to  do  when  she  first 
made  his  acquaintance,  and  the  publication  of  his  book 
afforded  her  endless  matter  for  gossip.  She  began  to  speak 
of  herself  as  an  old  woman,  and  of  spending  her  last  years 
happily  in  the  country.  To  all  appearances  she  had  dismissed 
from  her  mind  the  calamity  which  had  befallen  her;  her 
husband  might  have  been  long  dead  for  any  thought  she 
seemed  to  give  him.  She  was  wholly  taken  up  with  childish 
joy  in  trivial  matters.  The  dress  in  which  Maud  should  be 
married  gave  her  thoughts  constant  occupation,  and  she 
fretted  at  any  opposition  to  her  ideas.  StiU,  like  a  child, 
she  allowed  herself  to  be  brought  round  to  others'  views,  and 
was  ultimately  led  to  consent  that  the  costume  should  be  a 
very  simple  one,  merely  a  new  dress,  in  fact,  which  Maud 
would  be  able  to  wear  subsequently  with  little  change. 
Even  thus,  every  detail  of  it  was  as  important  to  her  as  if  it 
had  been  the  most  elaborate  piece  of  bridal  attire.  In  talk- 
ing with  Maud,  too,  she  had  lost  that  kind  of  awe  which 
had  formerly  restrained  her ;  it  was  as  though  she  had  been 
an  affectionate  mother  ever  since  her  daughter's  birth.  She 
called  her  by  pet  names,  often  caressed  her,  and  wished  for 


300  THE  UNCLASSED 

loving  words  and  acts  in  return.  Of  Miss  Bygrave's  presence 
in  the  house  she  appeared  scarcely  conscious,  never  referring 
to  her,  and  suffering  a  vague  trouble  if  her  sister  entered  the 
room  where  she  was,  which  Theresa  did  very  seldom. 

The  new  dress  had  come  home  finished  this  evening  whilst 
Maud  was  away.  On  the  latter's  return,  her  mother  insisted 
on  seeing  her  at  once  in  it,  and  Maud  obeyed.  A  strange 
bride,  rather  as  one  who  was  about  to  wed  herself  to  Heaven 
beneath  the  veil,  than  preparing  to  be  led  to  the  altar. 

Having  resumed  her  ordinary  dress,  Maud  went  down- 
stairs to  the  parlour  where  her  aunt  was  sitting.  Miss 
Bygrave  laid  down  a  book  as  she  entered. 

"  We  shall  not  see  each  other  after  to-night,"  Theresa  said, 
breaking  the  stillness  with  her  grave  but  not  unkind  voice. 
"  Is  there  anything  more  you  would  like  to  say  to  me,  Maud?" 

"  Only  that  I  shall  always  think  of  you,  and  grieve  that 
we  are  parted." 

"You  are  going  into  the  world,"  said  the  other  sadly, 
"my  thoughts  cannot  follow  you  there.  But  your  purer 
spirit  will  often  be  with  me." 

"  And  your  spirit  with  me.  If  I  had  been  permitted  to 
share  your  life,  that  would  have  been  my  greatest  joy.  I 
am  consciously  choosing  what  my  soul  would  set  aside.  For 
a  time  I  thought  I  had  reconciled  myself  to  the  world ;  I 
found  delight  in  it,  and  came  to  look  on  the  promptings  of 
the  spirit  as  morbid  fancies.  That  has  passed.  I  know  the 
highest,  but  between  me  and  it  there  is  a  gulf  which  it  may 
be  I  shall  never  pass." 

"  It  is  only  to  few,"  said  Theresa,  looking  at  Maud  with 
her  smile  of  assured  peace,  "that  it  is  given  to  persevere 
and  attain." 

As  they  sat  once  more  in  silence,  there  suddenly  came  a 
light  knock  at  the  house-door.  At  this  moment  Maud's 
thoughts  had  wandered  back  to  a  Christmas  of  her  child- 
hood, when  she  had  sat  just  as  to-night  with  her  aunt,  and 
had  for  the  first  time  listened  to  those  teachings  which  had 
moulded  her  Ufe.  The  intervening  years  were  swept  away, 
and  she  was  once  more  the  thoughtful,  wondering  child, 
conscious  of  the  great  difference  between  herself  and  her 
companions ;  in  spite  of  herself  learning  to  regard  the  world 
in  which  they  moved  as  something  in  which  she  had  no 
part.  Of  those  school  companions  a  few  came  back  to  her 
mind,  and,  before  aU,  the  poor  girl  named  Ida  Starr,  whom 


FORBIDDEN  301 

she  had  loved  and  admired.  "What  had  hecome  of  Ida, 
after  she  had  been  sent  away  from  Miss  Rutherford's  school  ? 
She  remembered  that  last  meeting  with  her  in  the  street,  on 
the  evening  of  Christmas  Day,  and  could  see  her  face. 

The  house  door  was  opened,  and  Maud  heard  a  voice  outside 
which  held  her  to  the  spot  where  she  stood.  Then  Theresa 
re-entered  the  room,  and  after  her  came  Paul  Enderby. 

He  seemed  to  be  wearing  a  disguise  ;  at  all  events  his 
clothing  was  that  of  a  working  man,  poor  and  worn,  and  his 
face  was  changed  by  the  growth  of  a  beard.  He  shivered 
with  cold,  and,  as  Miss  By  grave  closed  the  door  behind  him, 
stood  with  eyes  sunk  to  the  ground,  in  an  attitude  of  misery 
and  shame.  Maud,  recovering  quickly  from  the  shock  his  en- 
trance had  caused  her,  approached  him  and  took  his  hand. 

"  Father,"  she  said  gently.  Her  voice  overcame  him  ;  he 
burst  into  tears  and  stood  hiding  his  face  Avith  the  rough 
cap  he  held.  Maud  turned  to  her  aunt,  who  remained  at 
a  little  distance,  unmoving,  her  eyes  cast  down.  Before  any 
other  word  was  said,  the  door  opened  quickly,  and  Mrs. 
Enderby  ran  in  with  a  smothered  cry.  Throwing  her  arms 
about  her  husband,  she  clung  to  him  in  a  passion  of  grief  and 
tenderness.  In  a  moment  she  had  been  changed  from  the 
listless,  childish  woman  of  the  last  few  months  to  a  creature 
instinct  with  violent  emotion.  Her  mingled  excess  of  joy 
and  anguish  could  not  have  displayed  itself  more  vehemently 
had  she  been  sorrowing  night  and  day  for  her  husband's  loss. 
Maud  was  terrified  at  the  scene,  and  shrunk  to  Theresa's  side. 
Without  heeding  either,  the  distracted  woman  led  Paul  from 
the  room,  and  upstairs  to  her  own  chamber.  Drawing  him  to  a 
chair,  she  fell  on  her  knees  beside  him  and  wept  agonisingly. 

"  You  will  stay  with  me  now  1 "  she  cried,  when  her  voice 
could  form  words.  "  You  won't  leave  me  again,  Paul  ?  We 
will  hide  you  here. — No,  no  ;  I  am  forgetting.  You  will  go 
away  with  us,  away  from  London  to  a  safe  place.  Maud  is 
going  to  be  married  to-morrow,  and  we  will  live  with  her  in 
her  new  home.  You  have  suffered  dreadfully ;  you  look  so 
changed,  eo  ill.  You  shall  rest,  and  I  will  nurse  you.  Oh, 
I  will  be  a  good  wife  to  you,  Paul.  Speak  to  me,  do  speak 
to  me  :  speak  kindly,  dear  !    How  long  is  it  since  I  lost  you?" 

"I  daren't  stay,  Emily,"  he  replied,  in  a  hoarse  and  broken 
voice.  **  I  should  be  discovered.  I  must  get  away  from  Eng- 
land, that  is  my  only  chance.  I  have  scarcely  left  the  house 
•where  I  was  hiding  all  this  time.    It  wouldn't  have  been  safe 


302  THE  UNCLASSED 

to  try  and  escape,  even  if  I  had  had  any  money.  I  have 
hungered  for  days,  and  I  am  weaker  than  a  child." 

He  sobbed  again  in  the  extremity  of  his  wretchedness. 

**  It  was  all  for  my  sake  ! "  she  cried,  clinging  around  his 
neck.  "  I  am  your  curse.  I  have  brought  you  to  ruin  a 
second  time.  I  am  a  bad,  wretched  woman ;  if  you  drove 
me  from  you  with  blows  it  would  be  less  than  I  deserve  ! 
You  can  never  forgive  me ;  but  let  me  be  your  slave,  let  me 
suffer  something  dreadful  for  your  sake  !  "Why  did  I  ever 
recover  from  my  madness,  only  to  bring  that  upon  you  ! " 

He  could  speak  little,  but  leaned  back,  holding  her  to  him 
with  one  arm. 

"  No,  it  is  not  your  fault,  Emily,"  he  said.  "  Only  my 
own  weakness  and  folly.  Your  love  repays  me  for  all  I  have 
undergone ;  that  was  all  I  ever  wanted." 

When  she  had  exhausted  herself  in  passionate  consolation, 
she  left  him  for  a  few  moments  to  get  him  food,  and  he  ate 
of  it  like  a  famished  man. 

*'  If  I  can  only  get  money  enough  to  leave  the  country,  I 
am  saved,"  he  said.  "  If  I  stay  here,  I  shall  be  found,  and 
they  will  imprison  me  for  years.    I  had  rather  kill  myself  !  " 

"  Mr.  Waymark  will  give  us  the  money,"  was  the  reply, 
•'and  we  will  go  away  together." 

"  That  would  betray  me  ;  it  would  be  folly  to  face  such  a 
risk.     If  I  can  escape,  then  you  shall  come  to  me." 

"  Oh,  you  will  leave  me  ! "  she  cried.  "  I  shall  lose  you, 
as  I  did  before,  but  this  time  for  ever  !  You  don't  love  me, 
Paul !  And  how  can  I  expect  you  should  1  But  let  me  go 
as  your  servant.  Let  me  dress  like  a  man,  and  follow  you. 
Who  will  notice  then?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  I  love  you,  Emily,  and  shall  love  you  as  long  as  I  breathe. 
To  hear  you  speak  to  me  like  this  has  almost  the  power  to 
make  me  happy.  If  I  had  known  it,  I  shouldn't  have  stayed 
so  long  away  from  you  ;  I  hadn't  the  courage  to  come,  and  I 
thought  the  sight  of  me  would  only  be  misery  to  you.  I  have 
lived  a  terrible  life,  among  the  poorest  people,  getting  my 
bread  as  they  did;  oftener  starving.  Not  one  of  my  ac- 
quaintances was  to  be  trusted.  I  have  not  seen  one  face  I 
knew  since  I  first  heard  of  my  danger  and  escaped.  But  I 
had  rather  live  on  like  that  than  fall  into  the  hands  of 
the  police ;  I  should  never  know  freedom  again.  The  thought 
maddens  me  with  fear." 


FORBIDDEN 


303 


"  You  are  safe  here,  love,  quite  safe ! "  she  urged  sooth- 
ingly. "  Who  could  know  that  you  are  here  ?  "Who  could 
know  that  Maud  and  I  were  living  here  1 " 

There  was  a  tap  at  the  door.  Mrs.  Enderby  started  to  it, 
turned  the  key,  and  then  asked  who  was  there. 

"Emily,"  said  Miss  Bygrave's  voice,  "let  me  come  in — or 
let  Paul  come  out  here  and  speak  to  me." 

There  was  something  unusual  in  the  speaker's  tone  ;  it  was 
quick  and  nervous.  Paul  himself  went  to  the  door,  and, 
putting  his  wife's  hand  aside,  opened  it. 

"  What  is  it  ? "  he  asked. 

She  beckoned  him  to  leave  the  room,  then  whispered  : 

"  Some  one  I  don't  know  is  at  the  front  door.  I  opened  it 
with  the  chain  on,  and  a  man  said  he  must  see  Mr.  Enderby." 

"  Can't  I  go  out  by  the  back  1 "  Paul  asked,  all  but  voice- 
less with  terror.  "  I  daren't  hide  in  the  rooms ;  they  will 
search  them  all.  How  did  they  know  that  I  was  here  1  0 
God,  I  am  lost ! " 

They  could  hear  the  knocking  below  repeated.  Paul  hur- 
ried down  the  stairs,  followed  by  his  wife,  whom  Theresa  in 
vain  tried  to  hold  back.  He  knew  the  way  to  the  door  which 
led  into  the  garden,  and  opening  this,  sprang  into  the  darkness. 
Scarcely  had  he  taken  a  step,  when  strong  arms  seized  him. 

"  Hold  on  ! "  said  a  voice.  "  You  must  come  back  with 
me  into  the  house." 

At  the  same  moment  there  was  a  shriek  close  at  hand,  and, 
as  they  turned  to  the  open  door,  Paul  and  his  captor  saw 
Emily  prostrate  on  the  threshold,  and  Miss  Bygrave  stooping 
over  her. 

"  Better  open  the  front  door,  ma'am,"  said  the  police  officer, 
"  and  ask  my  friend  there  to  come  through.  We've  got  all 
we  want." 

This  was  done,  and  when  Emily  had  been  carried  into  the 
house,  Paul  was  led  thither  also  by  his  captor.  As  they 
stood  in  the  hall,  the  second  officer  drew  from  his  pocket  a 
warrant,  and  read  it  out  with  official  gravity. 

"  You'll  go  quietly  with  us,  I  suppose  ?  "  he  then  said. 

Paul  nodded,  and  all  three  departed  by  the  front  door. 

It  was  midnight  before  Mrs.  Enderby  showed  any  signs  of 
returning  consciousness.  Miss  Bygrave  and  Maud  sat  by 
her  bed  together,  and  at  length  one  of  them  noticed  that  she 
had  opened  her  eyes  and  was  looking  about  her,  though 
without  moving  her  head. 


304  THE  UNCLASSED 

"Mother,"  Maud  asked,  bending  over  her,  "are  you 
better  ?     Do  you  know  me  ? " 

Emily  nodded.  There  was  no  touch  of  natural  colour  in 
her  face,  and  its  muscles  seemed  paralysed.  And  she  lay 
thus  for  hours,  conscious  apparently,  but  paying  no  attention 
to  those  in  the  room.  Early  in  the  morning  a  medical  man 
was  summoned,  but  his  assistance  made  no  change.  The  fog 
was  still  heavy,  and  only  towards  noon  was  it  possible  to 
dispense  with  lamp-light ;  then  there  gleamed  for  an  hour  or 
two  a  weird  mockery  of  day,  and  again  it  was  nightfall. 
With  the  darkness  came  rain. 

Waymark  had  come  to  the  house  about  ten  o'clock.  But 
this  was  to  be  no  wedding-day.  Maud  begged  him  through 
her  aunt  not  to  see  her,  and  he  returned  as  he  came.  Miss 
Bygrave  had  told  him  all  that  had  happened. 

Mrs.  Enderby  seemed  to  sleep  for  some  hours,  but  just 
after  nightfall  the  previous  condition  returned;  she  lay  with 
her  eyes  open,  and  just  nodded  when  spoken  to.  From  eight 
o'clock  to  midnight  Maud  tried  to  rest  in  her  own  room, 
but  sleep  was  far  from  he*,  and  when  she  returned  to  the 
sick-chamber  to  relieve  her  aunt,  she  was  almost  as  worn 
and  ghastly  in  countenance  as  the  one  they  tended.  She 
took  her  place  by  the  fire,  and  sat  listening  to  the  sad  rain, 
which  fell  heavily  upon  the  soaked  garden-ground  below. 
It  had  a  lulling  effect.  Weariness  overcame  her,  and  before 
she  could  suspect  the  inclination,  she  had  fallen  asleep. 

Suddenly  she  Avas  awake  again,  wide  awake,  it  seemed  to 
her,  without  any  interval  of  half-consciousness,  and  staring 
horror-struck  at  the  scene  before  her.  The  shaded  lamp 
stood  on  the  chest  of  drawers  at  one  side  of  the  room,  and 
by  its  light  she  saw  her  mother  in  front  of  the  looking-glass, 
her  raised  hand  holding  something  that  glistened.  She 
could  not  move  a  limb ;  her  tongue  was  powerless  to  utter  a 
sound.  There  was  a  wild  laugh,  a  quick  motion  of  the 
raised  hand — then  it  seemed  to  Maud  as  if  the  room  were 
filled  with  a  crimson  light,  followed  by  the  eternal  darkness. 

A  fortnight  later  Miss  Bygrave  was  sitting  in  the  early 
morning  by  the  bed  where  Maud  lay  ill.  For  some  days  it 
had  been  feared  that  the  girl's  reason  would  fail,  and  though 
this  worst  possibility  seemed  at  length  averted,  her  condition 
was  still  full  of  danger.  She  had  recognised  her  aunt  the 
preceding  evening,  but  a  relapse  had  followed.     Now  she 


FORBIDDEN 


305 


unexpectedly  turned  to  the  watcher,  and  spoke  feebly,  but 
with  perfect  self-control. 

"  Aunt,  is  madness  hereditary  ? " 

Miss  Bygrave,  who  had  thought  her  asleep,  bent  over  her 
and  tried  to  turn  her  mind  to  other  thoughts.  But  the  sick 
girl  would  speak  only  of  this  subject. 

"I  am  quite  myself,"  she  said,  "and  I  feel  better.  Yes, 
I  remember  reading  somewhere  that  it  was  hereditary." 

She  was  quiet  for  a  little. 

"Aunt,"  she  then  said,  "I  shall  never  be  married.  It 
would  be  wrong  to  him.     I  am  afraid  of  myself." 

She  did  not  recur  to  the  subject  till  she  had  risen,  two  or 
three  weeks  after,  and  was  strong  enough  to  move  about  the 
room.  Waymark  had  called  every  day  during  her  illness. 
As  soon  as  he  heard  that  she  was  up,  he  desired  to  see  her, 
but  Maud  begged  him,  through  her  aunt,  to  wait  yet  a  day 
or  two.  In  the  night  which  followed  she  wrote  to  him,  and 
the  letter  was  this : 

"  If  I  had  seen  you  when  you  called  yesterday,  I  should 
have  had  to  face  a  task  beyond  my  strength.  Yet  it  woxild 
be  wrong  to  keep  from  you  any  longer  what  I  have  to  say. 
I  must  write  it,  and  hope  your  knowledge  of  me  will  help 
you  to  understand  what  I  can  only  imperfectly  express. 

"  I  ask  you  to  let  me  break  my  promise  to  you.  I  have 
not  ceased  to  love  you ;  to  me  you  are  still  all  that  is  best 
and  dearest  in  the  world.  You  would  have  made  my  Life 
very  happy.  But  happiness  is  now  what  I  dare  not  wish  for. 
I  am  too  weak  to  make  that  use  of  it  which,  I  do  not  doubt, 
is  permitted  us ;  it  would  enslave  my  soul.  "With  a  nature 
such  as  mine,  there  is  only  one  path  of  safety  :  I  must  re- 
nounce all.  You  know  me  to  be  no  hypocrite,  and  to  you, 
in  this  moment,  I  need  not  fear  to  speak  my  whole  thought, 
The  sacrifice  has  cost  me  much.  To  break  my  faith  to  you, 
and  to  put  aside  for  ever  all  the  world's  joys — the  strength 
for  this  has  only  come  after  hours  of  bitterest  striving.  Try 
to  be  glad  that  I  have  won ;  it  is  all  behind  me,  and  I  stand 
upon  the  theshold  of  peace. 

"  You  know  how  from  a  child  I  have  sufiered.  What  to 
others  was  pure  and  lawful  joy  became  to  me  a  temptation. 
But  God  was  not  unjust ;  if  He  so  framed  me,  He  gave  me 
at  the  same  time  the  power  to  understand  and  to  choose. 
All  those  warnings  which  I  have,  in  my  blindness,  spoken 

u 


3o6  THE  UNCLASSED 

of  so  lightly  to  you,  I  now  recall  with  humbler  and  truer 
mind.  If  tho  shadow  of  sin  darkened  my  path,  it  was  that 
I  might  look  well  to  my  steps,  and,  alas,  I  have  failed  so, 
have  gone  so  grievously  astray  !  God,  in  His  righteous  anger, 
has  terribly  visited  me.  The  most  fearful  form  of  death  has 
risen  before  me ;  I  have  been  cast  into  abysses  of  horror, 
and  only  saved  from  frenzy  by  the  mercy  which  brought  all 
this  upon  me  for  my  good.  A  few  months  ago  I  had  also  a 
warning.  I  did  not  disregard  it,  but  I  could  not  overcome 
the  love  which  bound  me  to  you.  But  for  that  love,  how 
much  easier  it  would  have  been  to  me  to  overcome  the 
world  and  myself. 

**  You  will  forgive  me,  for  you  will  understand  me.  Do 
not  write  in  reply ;  spare  me,  I  entreat  you,  a  renewal  of 
that  dark  hour  I  have  passed  through.  With  my  aunt  I 
am  going  to  leave  London.  "We  shall  remain  together,  and 
she  will  strengthen  me  in  the  new  life.  May  God  bless  you 
hero  and  hereafter.  Maud  Enderby." 

After  an  interval  of  a  day  ""Yaymark  wrote  as  follows  to 

Miss  By  grave  : — 

"  Doubtless  you  know  that  Maud  has  written  desiring  me 
to  release  her.  I  cannot  but  remember  that  she  is  scarcely 
yet  recovered  from  a  severe  illness,  and  her  letter  must  not 
be  final.  She  entreats  me  not  to  write  to  her  or  see  her. 
Accordingly  I  address  myself  to  you,  and  beg  that  you  will 
not  allow  Maud  to  take  any  irrevocable  step  till  she  is  per- 
fectly well,  and  has  had  time  to  reflect.  I  shall  still  deem 
her  promise  to  me  binding.  If  after  the  lapse  of  six  months 
from  now  she  still  desires  to  be  released,  I  must  know  it, 
either  from  herself  or  from  you.  Write  to  me  at  the  old 
address." 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

OKDEES  OF  EKLEASE 

Waymauk  and  Casti  spent  their  Christmas  Eve  together. 
They  spoke  freely  of  each  other's  affairs,  saving  that  there 
was  no  mention  of  Ida.  Waymark  had  of  course  said  nothing 
of  that  parting  between  Ida  and  himself.  Of  the  hope 
which  supported  him  he  could  not  speak  to  his  friend. 


ORDERS  OF  RELEASE  307 

A  month  had  told  upon  Julian  as  months  do  when  the 
end  draws  so  near.  In  spite  of  his  suffering  he  still  dis- 
charged his  duties  at  the  hospital,  but  it  was  plain  that  he 
would  not  be  able  to  do  so  much  longer.  And  what  would 
happen  then  ? 

"  Casti,"  Waymark  exclaimed  suddenly,  when  a  hint  of 
this  thought  had  brought  both  of  them  to  a  pause,  **  come 
away  with  me." 

Julian  looked  up  in  bewilderment. 

"Whereto?" 

"  Anywhere.     To  some  place  where  the  sun  shines." 

"  What  an  impossible  idea  !  How  am  I  to  get  my  living  ? 
And  how  is  she  to  live  ? " 

"  Look  here,"  Waymark  said,  smiling,  "  my  will  is  a  little 
stronger  than  yours,  and  in  the  present  case  I  mean  to 
exercise  it.  I  have  said,  and  there's  an  end  of  it.  You  say 
she'll  be  away  from  home  to-morrow.  Good.  We  go  to- 
gether, pack  up  your  books  and  things  in  half  an  hour  or  so, 
bring  them  here, — and  then  off !  Sic  volo,  sic  jubeo,  sit  pro 
ratione  voluntas  I " 

Ajid  it  was  done,  though  not  till  Waymark  had  overcome 
the  other's  opposition  by  the  most  determined  effort.  Julian 
understood  perfectly  well  the  full  significance  of  the  scheme, 
for  all  Waymark's  kind  endeavour  to  put  a  hopeful  and 
commonplace  aspect  on  his  proposal.  He  resisted  as  long 
as  his  strength  would  allow,  then  put  himself  in  his  friend's 
hands. 

It  was  some  time  before  Julian  could  set  his  mind  at  rest 
with  regard  to  the  desertion  of  his  wife.  Though  no  one 
capable  of  judging  the  situation  could  have  cast  upon  him  a 
shadow  of  blame,  the  first  experience  of  peace  mingled  itself 
in  his  mind  with  self-reproach.  Waymark  showed  him  how 
utterly  baseless  any  such  feeling  was.  Harriet  had  proved 
herself  unworthy  of  a  moment's  consideration,  and  it  was 
certain  that,  as  long  as  she  received  her  weekly  remittance — 
paid  through  an  agent  in  London, — she  would  trouble  her- 
self very  little  about  the  rest ;  or,  at  all  events,  any  feeling 
that  might  possess  her  would  be  wholly  undeserving  of  respect. 
Gradually  Julian  accustomed  himself  to  this  thought. 

They  were  in  the  Isle  of  Wight;  comfortably  housed, 
with  the  sea  before  their  eyes,  and  the  boon  of  sunshine 
which  Casti  had  so  longed  for. 

Waymark  gave  himself  wholly  to  the  invalid.     He  had 


3o8  THE  UNCLASSED 

no  impulse  to  resume  literary  work ;  anything  was  welcome 
which  enabled  him  to  fill  up  the  day  and  reach  the  morrow. 
Whilst  Julian  lay  on  the  couch,  which  was  drawn  up  to  the 
fireside,  Waymark  read  aloud  anything  that  could  lead  them 
to  forget  themselves.  At  other  times,  Julian  either  read 
to  himself  or  wrote  verse,  which,  however,  he  did  not  show 
to  his  friend.  Before  springtime  came  he  found  it  difficult 
even  to  maintain  a  sitting  attitude  for  long.  His  cough  still 
racked  him  terribly.  Waymark  often  lay  awake  in  the  night, 
listening  to  that  fearful  sound  in  the  next  room.  At  such 
times  he  tried  to  fancy  himself  in  the  dying  man's  position, 
and  then  the  sweat  of  horror  came  upon  his  brow.  Deeply 
he  sympathised  with  the  misery  he  could  do  so  little  to  allay. 
Yet  he  was  doing  what  he  might  to  make  the  end  a  quiet 
one,  and  the  consciousness  of  this  brought  him  many  a  calm 
moment. 

However  it  might  be  in  those  fearful  vigils,  Julian's  days 
did  not  seem  unhappy.  He  was  resigning  himself  to  the 
inevitable,  in  the  strength  of  that  quiet  which  sometimes 
ensues  upon  despair.  Now  and  then  he  could  even  be,  to 
all  appearances,  light-hearted. 

With  the  early  May  he  had  a  revival  of  inspiration. 
Strangely  losing  sight  of  his  desperate  condition,  he  spoke 
once  more  of  beginning  the  great  poem  planned  long  ago. 
It  was  living  within  his  mind  and  heart,  he  said.  Waymark 
listened  to  him  whilst  he  unfolded  book  after  book  of  glorious 
vision ;  listened,  and  wondered. 

There  was  a  splendid  sunset  one  evening  at  this  time,  and 
the  two  watched  it  together  from  the  room  in  which  they 
always  sat.  Seas  of  molten  gold,  strands  and  promontories 
of  jasper  and  amethyst,  illimitable  mountain-ranges,  cities  of 
unimagined  splendour,  all  were  there  in  that  extent  of  evening 
sky.  They  watched  it  till  the  vision  wasted  before  the 
breath  of  night. 

"What  shall  I  read?"  Waymark  asked,  when  the  lamp 
was  lit. 

"  Read  that  passage  in  the  Georgics  which  glorifies  Italy," 
Julian  replied.     "  It  will  suit  my  mood  to-night." 

Waymark  took  down  his  VirgiL 

"  Sed  neque  Medorum  silvae,  ditissima  terra, 
Nee  pulcher  Ganges  atque  auro  turbibus  Hermus 
Laudibus  Italise  certent,  non  Bactra,  neque  Indi, 
Totaque  turiferis  Panchaia  pinguis  arenis." 


ORDERS  OF  RELEASE  309 

Julian's  eyes  glistened  as  the  melody  rolled  on,  and  when 
it  ceased,  both  were  quiet  for  a  time. 

"  "Way mark,"  Julian  said  presently,  a  gentle  tremor  in  his 
voice,  "  why  do  we  never  speak  of  her  1 " 

"  Can  we  speak  of  her  ? "  "Waymark  returned,  knowing 
well  who  was  meant. 

"  A  short  time  ago  I  could  not ;  now  I  feel  the  need.  It 
will  give  me  no  pain,  but  great  happiness." 

"That  is  all  gone  by,"  he  continued,  with  a  solemn  smile. 
"To  me  she  is  no  longer  anything  but  a  remembrance,  an 
ideal  I  once  knew.  The  noblest  and  sweetest  woman  I  have 
known,  or  shall  know,  on  earth." 

They  talked  of  her  with  subdued  voices,  reverently  and 
tenderly.  Waymark  described  what  he  knew  or  divined  of 
the  life  she  was  now  leading,  her  beneficent  activity,  her 
perfect  adaptation  to  the  new  place  she  filled. 

"  In  a  little  while,"  Julian  said,  when  they  had  fallen  into 
thought  again,  "you  will  have  your  second  letter.    And  then? " 

There  was  no  answer.  Julian  waited  a  moment,  then  rose 
and,  clasping  his  friend's  hand,  bade  him  good  night. 

Waymark  awoke  once  or  twice  before  morning,  but  there 
was  no  coughing  in  the  next  room.  He  felt  glad,  and 
wondered  whether  there  was  indeed  any  improvement  in 
the  invalid's  health.  But  at  the  usual  breakfast-time  Julian 
did  not  appear.  Waymark  knocked  at  his  door,  with  no 
result.     He  turned  the  handle  and  entered. 

On  this  same  day,  Ida  was  visiting  her  houses.  Litany 
Lane  and  Elm  Court  now  wore  a  changed  appearance.  At 
present  it  was  possible  to  breathe  even  in  the  inmost  recesses 
of  the  Court.  There  the  fronts  of  the  houses  were  fresh 
white-washed ;  in  the  Lane  they  were  new-painted.  Even 
the  pavement  and  the  road-way  exhibited  an  improvement. 
If  you  penetrated  into  garrets  and  cellars  you  no  longer  found 
squalor  and  dilapidation;  poverty  in  plenty,  but  at  all  events 
an  attempt  at  cleanliness  everywhere,  as  far,  that  is  to  say, 
as  a  landlord's  care  could  ensure  it.  The  stair-cases  had 
ceased  to  be  rotten  pit-falls ;  the  ceilings  showed  traces  of 
recent  care ;  the  walls  no  longer  dripped  with  moisture  or 
were  foul  with  patches  of  filth.  Not  much  change,  it  is 
true,  in  the  appearance  of  the  inhabitants ;  yet  close  inquiry 
would  have  elicited  comforting  assurances  of  progressing  re- 
form, results  of  a  supervision  which  was  never  offensive, 


3IO  THE  UNCLASSED 

never  thoughtlessly  exaggerated.  Especially  in  the  condi- 
tion of  the  children  improvement  was  discernible.  Lodgers 
in  the  Lane  and  the  Court  had  come  to  understand  that  not 
even  punctual  payment  of  weekly  rent  was  sufficient  to 
guarantee  them  stability  of  tenure.  Under  this  singular 
lady-landlord  something  more  than  that  was  expected  and 
required,  and,  whilst  those  who  were  capable  of  adjusting  them- 
selves to  the  new  regime  found,  on  the  whole,  that  things 
went  vastly  better  with  them,  such  as  could  by  no  means  over- 
come their  love  of  filth,  moral  and  material,  troubled  them- 
selves little  when  the  notice  to  quit  came,  together  with  a 
little  sum  of  ready  money  to  cover  the  expenses  of  removal. 

Among  those  whom  Ida  called  upon  this  afternoon  was  an 
old  woman  who,  in  addition  to  her  own  voluminous  troubles, 
was  always  in  a  position  to  give  a  compte-rendti  of  the  general 
distress  of  the  neighbourhood.  People  had  discovered  that 
her  eloquence  could  be  profitabl}^  made  use  of  in  their  own 
service,  and  not  infrequently,  when  speaking  with  Ida,  she 
was  in  reality  holding  a  brief  from  this  or  that  neighbour, 
marked,  not  indeed  in  guineas,  but  in  "  twos "  of  strong 
beverage,  obtainable  at  her  favourite  house  of  caU.  To-day 
she  held  such  a  brief,  and  was  more  than  usually  urgent  in 
the  representation  of  a  deserving  case. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Woodstock,  mem,  there's  a  poor  young  'oman 
a-lyin'  at  the  Clock  'Ouse,  as  it  really  makes  one's  'art  bleed 
to  tell  of  her !  For  all  she's  so  young,  she's  a  widder,  an' 
pr'aps  it's  as  well  she  should  be,  seein'  how  shockin'  her 
'usband  treated  her  afore  he  was  took  where  no  doubt  he's 
bein'  done  as  he  did  by.  It's  fair  cruel,  Miss  Woodstock, 
mem,  to  see  her  sufFerin's.  She  has  fits,  an'  falls  down 
everywheres ;  it's  a  mercy  as  she  'asn't  been  run  over  in  the 
public  street  long  ago.  They're  hepiplectic  fits,  I'm  told, 
an'  laws  o'  me  !  the  way  she  foams  at  the  mouth  !  No  doubt 
as  they  was  brought  on  by  her  'usband's  etrocious  treatment. 
I  understand  as  he  was  a  man  as  called  hisself  a  gentleman. 
He  was  alius  that  jealous  of  the  pore  innocent  thing,  mem — 
castin'  in  her  teeth  things  as  I  couldn't  bring  myself  not  even 
to  'int  at  in  your  presence,  Miss  Woodstock,  mem.  Many's 
the  time  he's  beat  her  black  an'  blue,  when  she  jist  went  out 
to  get  a  bit  o'  somethink  for  his  tea  at  niglit,  'cos  he  would 
'ave  it  she'd  been  a-doin'  what  she  'aJn't  ought " 

"  Where  is  she?"  Ida  asked,  tliinking  she  had  now  gathered 
enough  of  the  features  of  the  case. 


ORDERS  OF  RELEASE  311 

•'  I  said  at  the  Clock  'Ouse,  mem.  !Mrs.  Sprowl's  took  her 
in,  mem,  and  is  be'avin'  to  her  like  a  mother.  She  knew  her, 
did  Mrs.  Sprowl,  in  the  pore  thing's  'appy  days,  before  ever 
she  married-  But  of  course  it  ain't  likely  as  Mrs.  Sprowl 
can  keep  her  as  long  as  her  pore  life  lasts ;  not  to  speak  of 
the  expense ;  its  a  terrible  responsibility,  owin'  to  the  hepi- 
plectic  ailment,  mem,  as  of  course  you  understand." 

"  Can't  she  get  into  any  hospital  ?  " 

*'  She  only  just  came  out,  mem,  not  two  weeks  ago.  They 
couldn't  do  no  more  for  the  pore  creature,  and  so  she  had  to 
go.  An'  she  'asn't  not  a  friend  in  the  world,  'ceptin'  Mrs. 
Sprowl,  as  is  no  less  than  a  mother  to  her." 

"  Do  you  know  her  name  1 " 

"  Mrs.  Casty,  mem.  It's  a  Irish  name,  I  b'lieve,  an'  I  can't 
say  as  I'm  partial  to  the  Irish,  but " 

"  Very  well,"  Ida  broke  in  hastily.  **  I'll  see  if  I  can  do 
anything." 

Paying  no  attention  to  the  blessings  showered  upon  her 
by  the  counsel  in  this  case,  blessings  to  which  she  was 
accustomed,  and  of  which  she  well  understood  the  value, 
Ida  went  out  into  the  Lane,  and  walked  away  quickly.  She 
did  not  pause  at  the  Clock  House,  but  walked  as  far  as  a 
quiet  street  some  little  distance  off,  and  then  paced  the 
pavement  for  a  while,  in  thought.  Who  this  "  Mrs.  Casty  " 
was  she  could  have  little  doubt.  The  calumnies  against  her 
husband  were  just  such  as  Harriet  Casti  would  be  likely  to 
circulate. 

For  a  moment  it  had  seemed  possible  to  go  to  the  public- 
house  and  make  personal  inquiries,  but  reflection  showed 
her  that  this  would  be  a  needless  imprudence,  even  had  she 
been  able  to  overcome  herself  sufficiently  for  such  an  inter- 
view. She  went  home  instead,  and  at  once  despatched  Miss 
Hurst  to  the  Clock  House  to  discover  whether  it  was  indeed 
Harriet  Casti  who  lay  there,  and,  if  so,  what  her  real  con- 
dition was.  That  lady  returned  with  evidence  establishing 
the  sick  woman's  identity.  Harriet,  she  reported,  was  indeed 
in  a  sad  state,  clearly  incapable  of  supporting  herself  by  any 
kind  of  work.  Her  husband — Miss  Hurst  was  told — had 
deserted  her,  leaving  her  entirely  without  means,  and  now, 
but  for  Mrs.  Sprowl's  charity,  she  would  have  been  in  the 
workhouse.  This  story  sounded  very  strangely  to  Ida.  It 
might  mean  that  Julian  was  dead.  She  wrote  a  few  lines 
to  Waymark,  at  the  old  address,  and  had  a  speedy  reply. 


312  THE  UNCLASSED 

Yes,  Julian  Casti  was  dead,  but  the  grave  had  not  yet  closed 
over  him.  Harriet  had  been  in  receipt  of  money,  and  need 
have  wanted  for  nothing ;  but  now  she  must  expect  no  more. 

The  result  of  it  all  was  that,  in  the  course  of  a  week, 
Harriet  was  informed  by  Miss  Hurst  that  a  place  was  open 
to  her  in  a  hospital  near  London,  where  she  could  remain  as 
long  as  her  ailments  rendered  it  necessary ;  the  expense 
would  be  provided  for  by  a  lady  who  had  been  told  of  the 
case,  and  wished  to  give  what  aid  she  could.  The  offer  was 
rejected,  and  with  insult.  When  next  she  visited  Litany 
Lane,  Ida  learnt  that  "pore  Mrs.  Casty,"  after  a  quarrel 
with  her  friend  Mrs.  Sprowl,  had  fallen  downstairs  in  a  fit 
and  broken  her  neck. 

Waymark  lived  on  in  the  Isle  of  Wight,  until  a  day  when 
there  came  to  him  a  letter  from  Miss  Bygrave.  It  told  him 
that  Maud's  resolve  was  immutable,  and  added  that  aunt 
and  niece,  having  become  members  of  "  the  true  Church," 
were  about  to  join  a  sisterhood  in  a  midland  town,  where 
their  lives  would  be  devoted  to  work  of  charity. 

Not  many  days  after  this,  Ida,  in  London,  received  a 
letter,  addressed  in  a  hand  she  knew  well.  There  was  a 
flush  on  her  face  as  she  began  to  read ;  but  presently  came 
the  pallor  of  a  sudden  joy  almost  too  great  to  be  borne. 
The  letter  was  a  long  one,  containing  the  story  of  several 
years  of  the  writer's  life,  related  with  unflinching  sincerity, 
bad  and  good  impartially  set  down,  and  all  leading  up  to 
words  which  danced  in  golden  sunlight  before  her  tear- 
dimmed  eyes. 

For  an  hour  she  sat  alone,  scarce  moving.  Yet  it  seemed 
to  her  that  only  a  few  minutes  were  allowed  to  pass  before 
she  took  her  pen  and  wrote. 


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